Only Witness
by Periphery
Summary: George,' she announces, 'I am a coward.'" Sealview, one year later. Rated for strong language. Title from Pete Yorn, "Committed."
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, few of the plotlines, etc., etc._

* * *

_I saw your sky fall down today  
Suddenly turn from blue to gray  
'Til one by one the raindrops  
Turned to tears upon your face _

_Matthew West_

* * *

For a heartstopping moment she can't remember where she is. She's in the basement, hiding, only she's not, because it's _too_ familiar, and besides she can hear Elliot, it's crowded and he's yelling, but that's not right either because she's not moving, she ought to be shaking with anger or fear but she's not, she's not –

"Hey, Liv."

That's real, she calculates in an instant; that's real and the voices in her head are not. Olivia blinks at the shadowy underside of the top bunk and suppresses a sigh. Usually the dreams are _better_ in the crib. She feels drained, as though she's been living two or three nightmares at once.

"Liv," the voice hisses. Elliot.

"D'I have to get up?" she murmurs.

"No."

"Then go 'way. I'm takin' all my time."

"Take it at home. They picked up Cotone over on 68th."

She summons the energy to turn her head toward him. "So you woke me up to tell me to sleep?" Not that she minds escaping the dream, but even half-asleep she has to poke fun at his logic.

"Yes," Elliot says unrepentantly, heading past her towards the lockers.

"Go away," she repeats. "I'm not moving."

"Have it your way," he calls over his shoulder.

_Thanks, I will._ Olivia closes her eyes – God, but it's been a long few days – and, hearing the comforting sounds of her partner banging around in the locker room, slips quickly toward sleep.

* * *

It's been a very long chase, Elliot thinks wearily, squinting into the depths of his locker. Their work isn't over yet, of course, but now that Robert Cotone's off the streets – _before_ having the chance to snatch another little girl – at least they can all catch some serious sleep. He extracts his coat and the rolled-up newspaper he abandoned – yesterday? Two days ago? Apparently his brain shuts down the moment he doesn't actively need it.

Maybe he should crash in the crib too. For a moment he thinks jealously of his partner, who is probably dead to the world by now. But no. He owes his family an appearance, at the very least. Maybe he'll get home in time to take an afternoon nap with Eli; they both get a kick out of that. Once last week he woke up with an arm draped over his son and Kathy and Lizzie standing in the doorway, wearing identical soppy expressions. _You are too _cute, Lizzie said, giggling.

Contemplating such things, Elliot smiles to himself and heads out, banging his paper absently against the bars of the bunks as he passes. He barely makes it halfway to the door before he is jolted from his reverie by a voice yelling, "Fuck!"

Two beds ahead of him, Olivia bolts upright, gasping for breath. He can feel himself gaping at her, shocked; it takes him a beat to realize that it must have been her voice – the tone was far too close to afraid to be his partner.

"Liv?" he ventures.

"Don't. _Do _that," she says tersely.

"Do what? Walk?" He sits on the bed by her feet, mind racing with possibilities. He startled her? She was having a nightmare? Both? She's still breathing hard; when he goes to touch her shoulder she jerks away so fast that his stomach turns over. _Liv._

"Just don't," she snaps.

_Well, _he wants to retort,_ that's very informative._ He jams his hands under his thighs to keep himself from reaching for her. "Liv. I can't stop until you tell me what I'm doing wrong." He waits, but she just sits there looking at her own lap. "Liv?" He tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She shakes her head sharply and glances up at him. "Go home, El." When he looks skeptical she adds, "I'm _fine._"

"Just don't do that?" he guesses, and she smiles slightly.

"Class dismissed."

"Yeah, except I still don't know what I'm not supposed to do."

Olivia picks up the newspaper that he's dropped between them and hits him on the head with it.

"Geez," he says, snatching it back. "I'm _going_ already."

* * *

_Fuck,_ she says to herself after he leaves, flopping back onto the bed. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Damage control. Does she need damage control? Or will he brush this off?

He could forget about it. Hopefully. Oh, she should have looked him in the eye, she should have said something witty, but she didn't have it in her. He'd have seen it in her eyes if she'd let him look, and she can't have that.

Probably he's forgotten already. She doesn't know whether to be relieved or depressed at this thought. Relieved, she eventually decides, because really it works in her favor. The man's on his way home to his family, after all. That's more important.

Oh, she can't stay here anymore; she's awake now. She'll go home and crash in her own bed. Yes. Meanwhile Elliot's forgetting about this, tomorrow they'll both act as though nothing ever happened, and it'll be okay. It'll be okay. She repeats this to herself because there's no-one to say it to her.

Olivia gets up, slowly, because she's remembering a time when she could confess to her partner and it takes energy to remember that far back. She used to be able to say to him, _I made a mistake._ God, it would feel so good, to let the weight settle on someone else's shoulders, just for a moment….

No. She checks herself right there and digs her shoes out from under the bed. This is where the vicious circle starts again, with wanting… it's impossible. How stupid, to have moved past Sealview only to get hung up on this.

* * *

_TBC..._

_Hold on tight; this will get interesting. And please review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: See previous. (At least I think I put one on the first chapter...)_

* * *

_I have these moments  
All steady and strong  
I'm feeling so holy and humble  
The next thing I know  
I'm all worried and weak  
And I feel myself  
Starting to crumble_

_Dan Fogelberg_

* * *

This is what she can trust her partner to do:

Watch her back. Always.

Get annoyed when she clicks her pen.

Know what she means by any given glance or signal.

Take half the blame when she fucks up.

Invite her to Thanksgiving dinner every year, knowing perfectly well that she works Thanksgiving.

Trust her gut almost as much as she does.

Bring her good coffee.

Stand by her to the brass, and yell at her himself in private.

Keep chocolate in his lower left desk drawer.

Not care when she steals said chocolate.

Keep her safe. As safe as she's ever going to be.

* * *

"Annabel Taylor," Elliot is saying. "Eighteen years old, lived in Brooklyn Heights."

"Body found in the park this morning," Olivia adds smoothly. "Warner said she's been dead three to four days, more exact estimate in the works. Raped and strangled."

"Rape kit positive for fluids. Still running the DNA."

Cragen folds his arms, considering the crime scene photos. "Notified the family yet?"

Olivia shakes her head. "We went to the address on her driver's license: nobody home. The neighbors say that she lived with her older sister, parents dead five years ago, and the sister's been in and out of trouble." She looks to Elliot, who was supposed to look this up.

"Matter of fact," he says, picking up the thread, "she's in it right now – arrested for possession three days ago. She's currently awaiting trial at Sealview."

Fin's shoulders shift oddly; no-one else besides Olivia seems to notice the small spark that has passed through the room.

Cragen is stuck on the rest of the family. "No grandparents? Aunts, uncles, anything?"

"Sister's it, as far as we can tell," Olivia says quickly. "She's a screwup, but she's it."

"Last to see her alive?"

Elliot hesitates; they haven't actually gotten that far yet. "Potentially the sister."

Cragen raises both eyebrows. "Well, then, you two have two reasons to get over to Sealview an hour ago."

"Cap'n – " Fin starts.

"Is there a problem, Detective?" the captain asks politely; and this is how she knows that he too has noticed. She glares at Fin: _no there is not._

Fin deflates under two stares. "No, sir."

"Well then. Olivia, Elliot, get moving."

* * *

They're halfway to the prison before Elliot lets on that he has noticed as well. It's nothing really, just a glance her way that lasts a little too long, but suddenly she can't breathe. His gaze is hot on the side of her face, even when he looks away. Olivia wishes she were driving, just for something to do with her hands.

"Stop it," she says when the formerly comfortable silence has grown too awkward to bear.

"Stop what?" he says innocently.

"That." She barely keeps herself from adding _You know what I mean this time_, remembering that her outburst in the crib never happened.

Elliot snorts. "Fine, I'll stop."

"Thank you," she says loftily, and turns the radio on soft to fill up the space between them. She prays to a God she is not sure she believes in: _I can do this. I can do this. Please, let me do this._

* * *

She can't do this.

He doesn't figure it out for sure until they are in the warden's office attempting to have a conversation. Olivia's breathing sped up the moment they turned onto prison grounds, but still he was confident that she could handle it. She's _his_ partner, after all; surely she can handle anything.

His unease grew the farther inside they got, and now he finally knows. _This_ is where it gets to be too much: in a small room, surrounded by the sounds of the prison, with an official in Sealview uniform. Olivia is frozen, he can tell even if the warden can't, and he can't concentrate on anything that's being said with her fear running up his own spine. Elliot slips a hand into his pocket.

When her phone rings Olivia starts so badly that the warden notices and frowns. "Sorry," she says quickly, fumbling for her cell.

"Why don't you take that outside?" he suggests pointedly. "I'll meet you out there."

"Yeah," she says dimly, and then the door slams behind her. Elliot takes a deep breath and focuses on the warden.

"Remind me why we can't see Emma Taylor?" he says.

"Because," the warden says very deliberately, as though he is perhaps a little slow, "she's in solitary."

"Right." He's heard this before. A few well-placed threats of obstruction charges later, he is being shown to an interview room where he can talk to Emma.

* * *

She is so focused on her escape that she forgets all about the phone call. Olivia makes it out of the prison proper before collapsing onto a bench in the tiny entryway. She puts her head between her knees and tries to remember how to breathe.

"Y'all right?" says the woman staffing the desk, sounding supremely bored. Olivia's stomach roils; she holds up a hand without lifting her head. _Go away._

_You're okay,_ she tells herself, mildly surprised to discover that it is true. She hasn't frozen up like that since, since the Crewes case. Never in front of Elliot. Oh, shit. She rubs her temples and makes herself _calm down_ before she thinks about anything else.

That accomplished, she retrieves her gun from the desk – this makes her feel better – and steps outside, remembering the phone call that saved her from that room.

The first name under Missed Calls is Elliot.

She double-checks the date and time to make sure. Definitely Elliot.

No. No, no no. He _cannot_ come to her rescue. Not like this.

* * *

This is what she cannot trust her partner to do:

Keep his own marriage afloat.

Realize that she's falling apart.

Deal with her weakness.

Treat her the same afterwards.

Not blame her for getting hurt.

See her cry. Ever.

Know what happened in the basement.

* * *

_TBC..._

_I hope everybody liked...please review!_


	3. Chapter 3

_How I wish, how I wish you were here.  
We're just two lost souls  
Swimming in a fish bowl,  
Year after year,  
Running over the same old ground.  
What have we found?  
The same old fears.  
Wish you were here._

_Pink Floyd_

* * *

She falls into step beside him the moment he leaves the building, as though she really was only called away. "How'd it go?"

"Emma is devastated and absolutely no help," he says, to stall for time and evaluate her. She's walking a little too fast, determined; he can't see her face. "If we don't get anywhere otherwise I'd like to reinterview her; she might remember something when she's calmed down."

Olivia nods. "We need to re-canvass too. Half the neighbors weren't home this morning."

"Yeah," he agrees. "And when Warner gives us a time of death we'll try the park regulars. You all right?"

"Yeah," she says quickly, without looking at him.

As they approach the car he fishes the keys from his pocket and juggles them nervously. "Liv…" All the things he's thought of saying to her in the past year tumble over each other and jam up in his throat.

She snatches the keys from his grip. "Elliot. I'm fine."

He seems to hear that a lot these days.

* * *

Once they're well on the road with the tension pulling him apart, he finally settles on one of the things to say. Elliot clears his throat and pretends to look out the window.

"What?" she snaps.

"Just," he starts. "I can't concentrate when you're – like that, so in the future…" He trails off, struggling for a turn of phrase that will not offend her. _Just let me know when there's something you can't handle_ is what he means, but that sounded much safer when he wasn't about to actually say it.

The breath she draws in response is slow and pained. "Fine," she says after a moment, the edge gone from her voice.

Elliot glances across at his partner, wanting to say something reassuring. For what feels like the hundredth time he starts, "Liv – "

"Shut the _fuck_ up."

Because he can tell that, for reasons unknown, she really means it, he does.

* * *

The closer to home they get, the more surprised she is that she didn't crash the car when he said that. Neither of them has said a word for five miles but she can still hear: _I can't. I can't. I can't concentrate._

_I can't do this anymore._

She'll be fine, she tells herself firmly. She was startled by the comment, that's all, a little shaken, and that's understandable. It's always unsettling to have your nightmares come alive.

* * *

When they get back to the house she brushes past him as though he is unworthy of her attention. Confused, Elliot follows her up to the squad room just in time to run into her coming back out. "Warner called," she informs him, sounding a little more friendly. If that forced cheer can be called friendly.

He considers trying again, starting for the hundred and first time, _Liv?_ Then he glances her way, plays the likely conversation in his head, and decides to skip ahead to the end result. He concentrates on the case.

* * *

The truly pathetic thing is that she knows exactly what her problem is. Part of it's obvious, of course, the -- the Sealview part.

It occurs to her that euphemisms are little use when they begin to bother you as much as the more blunt description. Even in your mind. Olivia shakes her head, settling deeper into her couch, and picks up another beer. She shoves the thought away as unimportant. It's evening now, someone else is catching, and tonight she is mourning.

For a while she thought she'd made peace with what happened at Sealview. She'd gone to therapy, pushed aside all the little voices telling her she was a terrible patient; she'd told her story to complete strangers. She'd cried, late at night with no-one to hear her. For the most part she'd stopped seeing Lowell Harris's face in shadowy corners, stopped hearing his baton rattling the chain link.

There are of course moments, but Olivia has dealt with sudden painful moments all her life, at graduations and friends' houses and insurance forms and certain movies and most of the month of June. It's an occupational hazard of growing up without a father.

So there'd been moments still but she'd been doing so _well._ Too well, apparently. Because one day she turned around and realized that the man who'd kept so many of her secrets still had no idea what happened in the basement.

That night the nightmares started again.

Is it so wrong, she wonders now, to want to spill out her heart to someone? She's on the receiving end of it all the time. The impulse was bound to rub off on her sooner or later. Just because she doesn't have anyone to listen, does she have to suffer like this?

Olivia groans and throws her head back on the couch. She's just drunk enough to admit the truth, if only in her head: the problem isn't that she has no-one, at least not precisely. She's got a dysfunctional bastard of a partner who's been her rock for eleven long years, and she_ cannot_ let him see that she's drowning. _That's_ what's keeping her up at night.

Sometimes, honest to God, sometimes she really hates him for that.

She's been there for him through everything. And now this. She thinks maybe it isn't fair. She thinks she'll never really know. She's too involved – after all, it's her life.

* * *

"_Dad,_" Dick complains. "You aren't paying attention."

"Yes I am," Elliot says automatically, shaking himself back to the present. "Go on."

"You're supposed to listen so you can tell me what I'm doing wrong."

"Dick_ieeee_," Lizzie says, drawing out the last syllable of her brother's name, just to annoy him. "Half the class won't be listening tomorrow, guaranteed, and you won't be able to stop to yell at _them._"

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. Now go."

Elliot makes himself concentrate on global warming for his remaining five minutes as a test audience. Afterwards he wanders into the kitchen and stares into the refrigerator as though it will magically give him answers.

This afternoon he stopped on his way through the squad room to say, _Olivia, could you take Munch with you for the canvass, Fin and I got a lead on the Reilly case._ He's still trying to figure out why she suddenly looked at him as though he'd kicked her dog.

It was gone the next moment but he's not a detective for nothing; he makes a living by noticing things. He just hasn't had the time to mull over everything he's noticed about her recently. Yeah, that's it. He's a busy man.

"You're letting the cold air out," Lizzie says behind him, sounding uncannily like her mother.

"How silly of me." He steps away from the fridge and she darts across the room.

"Don't close it! I'm hungry." She rummages around and comes up with a carton of yogurt that he hadn't noticed. "Guess what happened today?"

"What?"

"You're the worst guesser ever."

"It better not have to do with that Bobby character."

Lizzie rolls her eyes. "I know better than to talk to you about boys. Guess again," she orders, and he does.

* * *

At some point she must have fallen asleep, because now she's hearing voices. Two voices, to be exact: it's Harris's that makes her wake up shaking and Elliot's that shoves her farther into herself like a rag doll. _I can't be looking over my shoulder…I need to know that you can do your job and not wait for me…._

She's changed her mind. The pathetic part isn't what she knows. The pathetic part is that he's a bastard but she can't wait for the morning, because just being within fifty feet of him makes her feel better. Safer. And God, he can't ever find out that she's such a weakling at heart.

* * *

_TBC..._

_So here's the thing: two AP tests down, three to go. (This, by the way, is only a slice of RL right now.) I have zero time in which to write; my friends have noticed because it makes me cranky. I'm posting this now because I've been meaning to all week and literally haven't had the time, but I'm short on the written material from here on out. And I'd really like to do a post-ep for Tuesday's ep. The point of all this is that I'm sorry that this update took longer than normal, but unfortunately the next one probably will too. :( But have no fear, I will not abandon._

_And here's the other thing: pleasepleaseplease review!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: See previous._

_::ducks:: I'm sorry. Really I am! The delay was even longer than I expected because I forgot about quiz bowl nationals. And also I suddenly had to devote quite a lot of writing time to a graduation speech. However, to make it up to you I have an amusing L&O story...one of the "trash" questions at nationals was about the mothership. Our moderator mispronounced Munch's name, which was my first clue, and then as the question went on I realized it wasn't really about SVU, and I don't know the mothership nearly so well...my captain, who is aware of my obsession, yelled at me and I choked. The answer turned out to be Briscoe (the elder). Ouch. On the other hand I did power a tossup on the Milgram experiment. Three guesses how I know that one._

_In any case, here it is, and I swear updates will be more regular from now on._

* * *

_I know that look in your eyes  
I see the pain behind your smile  
Please don't hold it all inside_

_Rebecca St. James_

* * *

"Okay, people," Cragen barks. "Where are we on the Taylor murder?"

"A _little_ bit farther," Munch says helpfully. "Liv and I talked to the neighbors; several of them described a suspicious character, shall we say, whom they saw with Annabel. Six feet, dark hair, glasses."

Olivia flips through her notebook. "The very nosy and talkative woman downstairs remembered specifically because this guy is quote, 'usually running around with that Emma at disgraceful hours of the night.'"

"If it's a disgraceful hour, what's _she_ doing up?" Elliot wants to know.

"I asked that question," John says confidingly. "She got all imperious and wouldn't answer."

"Be quiet," Olivia orders. "Mrs. Buckler is coming in around ten to sit with a sketch artist."

"And be nice to her, because it'll probably be the highlight of her day," John adds under his breath. Olivia ducks her head but Elliot can read the smile in the set of her shoulders. He tries to suppress a scowl, without much success.

"And the sister?" Cragen prompts.

"Nothing," Elliot says tersely. "Traumatized. Maybe later."

"Time of death?"

"Between noon and four Friday. We're canvassing the park today."

"Lab's backed up on the DNA," Fin says without prompt. "We should have it by this afternoon."

After so many years they do not need words to be dismissed. Elliot glances across at his partner as they both settle in to sort through the papers on their desks. "Sounds like you and Munch had fun."

She looks up, guarded. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nothing, really. It's something to say. _He's_ supposed to be able to make her smile.

Olivia watches him for a moment longer. Something flickers in her eyes, he thinks, something like pain, or maybe just resignation; but then she breaks contact, a dismissal as clear as Cragen's.

* * *

By sheer luck the DNA results come in just before Elliot and Olivia head out to canvass in the park. A shy sort of man walking his dog recognizes both Annabel and Joseph Saltzman, who was walking with her last week, might've been Friday. No, definitely Friday; he remembers now because they both knocked into his grocery bag as they ran past and he always does the shopping Fridays. They were arguing. He says this all very fast, _a-yuh,_ and nervously watches them go after they thank him for his time.

They do not tell him that Joseph Saltzman was convicted five years ago on drug charges. They do not tell him that he was accused at the same time of a rape-homicide. They do not tell him that Narcotics has been trying to pin him down again for at least three years.

While they are busy roaming the park, Olivia focusing fully on other people's problems, she becomes aware of Elliot. All day he's been tense in a way that spells personal involvement for him. She's noticed this as his children get older: the range of ages of victim that especially affect him widens every year. None of his kids are eighteen now, but he's got two daughters two years away on either side. She knows Elliot. She'd much rather deal with his problem than give him a chance to try to deal with hers.

This, she knows how to handle.

As they make the drive back to the Taylor sisters' building she breaks the silence. "Who do you see in her?"

"Who?"

"Annabel." She flicks the photo at him. It's her senior yearbook portrait, complete with pearls and a beatific smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says stiffly, clearly knowing perfectly well what she's talking about.

"Okay," she says, pretending to accept this. He glances her way and she knows she has him: Elliot is good at hiding his feelings from the world, but not from her.

There's a little voice in her head whining that this is all wrong, wanting him to reach out a steady hand and draw the troubles from _her._ She pushes it away firmly. She has to be strong for Elliot. She always is.

"She reminds me of Maureen a bit," he says finally. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Really," she says noncommittally. She's been thinking of Lizzie, of the stigma that comes with having an older sister who's a screwup, but she's not about to tell him that.

"Yeah. She had that same look at the end of high school. Cool and confident and completely terrified."

Olivia looks at the picture again. She supposes there is something of fear in the tilt of this girl's eyes. Fear of the unknown? Or maybe the known? She wonders just how well the sisters knew Joseph Saltzman.

"You watch yourself," she orders him. He's liable to do something stupid, in this state, especially considering that he's still halfway in denial.

He raises both eyebrows at her, an expression so familiar that her spirits lift. "Don't mother me."

* * *

They don't even get as far as the neighbors. Having first approached the young man mopping the lobby floor, they are informed that Joseph Saltzman (or, as the man calls him, Garrett O'Neill) lives on the sixth floor. "There he is," he says, pointing to the opening stairwell door.

"Joseph Saltzman?" Elliot calls.

Saltzman flees as though he was waiting for the cue. They chase him down into the basement, nearly lose him in a maze of dark concrete hallways, and then hear a crash through a door to their left.

"That's one of the old storage rooms," says a voice behind her. While Elliot is calling for backup, Olivia whips around, gun steady, to discover that the janitor has followed them. She lowers her weapon and glares at him.

"It's a dead end," he says unapologetically.

"Okay," she says calmly, turning him around by the shoulders. "Thank you, now get out of here." Saltzman is armed, she saw him draw while they were running, and she doesn't want this kid near the action.

After watching him flee she turns and steps up beside her partner to consider crossing the doorway, to flank it properly. Saltzman could just be waiting for such an opportunity, though, and she prefers to keep her head. Olivia glances sideways.

"No," she hisses at once, shaking her head sharply at the look on Elliot's face. _No, you're not going in there._

"There could be a window," he breathes, lips barely moving.

She keeps shaking her head, listening hard; there's no more movement to their left and besides the janitor ought to know the building.

_I'm going in there._

_Don't you dare,_ she mouths, knowing he can read her eyes even better than her lips. _Backup's coming, just wait – _

He nods once.

_So help me God, El, if you turn that corner – _

Elliot is around the corner before she can hold him back. After a brief moment in which she is too stunned to curse, she follows.

* * *

Oh, she just loves standoffs.

For five minutes – or maybe just three – hell, it feels like hours – Elliot has been trying to talk Saltzman down. Their two guns to his one aren't much of an advantage when he doesn't care who gets hurt. She's still praying for their backup to get a move on.

"Lower your weapon," Elliot is repeating, "and no-one gets hurt."

"I don't believe you," Saltzman retorts. The guy's either crazy or high. Based on the circumstances she's betting on high.

"Why not?" Elliot asks, friendly. "I'm one hundred percent trustworthy. Just ask her." He jerks his head her way. "Just put the gun down."

"You first."

"Don't," she says immediately, because he might, they do that sometimes, but to her this guy screams _lying._

Saltzman tilts his head, the picture of terrified, Elliot should be able to see through this in a heartbeat, what the hell is wrong with him? "You first," he repeats.

"Okay," Elliot says, his hands coming apart, "all right – "

"El, he's lying – "

"You next," Saltzman says, glancing at her.

She shakes her head. "You're out of luck," she says, trying to keep her voice steady even as her apparently hormonal partner crouches to lay his Glock on the cement. "He's an idiot but I see right through you, Joseph."

Before she can draw a breath to go on, to see if she's having any effect, Elliot's gun hits the floor and a shot rings out. Then another. Then a scream.

* * *

_TBC..._

_In between freaking out about tonight, watching the finale, and freaking out some more, pleeeeease find the time to review. It makes me happy. When I'm happy I write a lot. Hint hint... thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: See previous._

_Okay, so at the end I reference one of my own stories again and I'm gonna get its name right this time. It's the post-ep for PTSD in Feel the Silence. In case anyone wants to go back to that. :)_

* * *

_Your conscience awakes  
And you see your mistakes  
And you wish someone  
Would buy your confessions  
The days miss their mark  
And the night gets so dark_

_Dan Fogelberg_

* * *

Olivia lunges forward and snatches up Saltzman's gun from where it fell next to him. "El!" she yells, panicky.

"Here," he says, and then he's next to her shoving a knee into their perp's back. "He missed."

She stares at him but he ignores her, choosing instead to rip off a swath of Saltzman's own shirt and press it to the man's bleeding upper arm. "Nice shot, by the way."

At this point she recovers enough to stow both guns and fish out her radio. "Is that – " Her voice is trembling so she swallows and starts again: "Is that how you thank me for saving your ass?"

* * *

"I have a question," Munch says when they finally make it back to the house, as dusk creeps over the city. "Were you born foolish, or was foolishness thrust upon you?"

"That's a song," Fin says.

"No, it's Shakespeare. _Twelfth Night._ Well?"

"Neither," Elliot says. He starts pacing, though: any minute Cragen will appear and it's always better to take the lecture standing. Olivia sits and attempts to ignore them all. She wants no part in this. All _she_ did was keep her partner from getting killed.

"That's right," Fin announces. "It's neither 'cause you _choose _foolishness."

"You _achieve_ it."

"Of all the dumb-ass things to do – "

"I exercised my judgment."

"Nice try," Fin snorts.

"I did!"

"Very poorly, then," Munch says, but before he can elaborate a door slams and everybody looks toward the sound.

Cragen starts yelling halfway across the floor. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Wisely, Elliot shuts his mouth.

"You put yourself in danger. You put your partner in danger. And for what? A suspect who could've been collared within five minutes without bloodshed if you'd just waited for backup." The captain pauses, looking around as though he didn't realize he had an audience, even though they all know better; then he turns back to Elliot, who is studying the floor with the air of one who is used to scoldings. "You have a partner for a reason, detective, but she can't protect you if you don't listen to her. Use your _head._ If I get wind of any more reckless behavior, you'll be riding a desk for a month. Do I make myself clear?"

Elliot nods.

"We'll continue this chat later." Cragen turns to Olivia, hands her a sheaf of paperwork, and disappears.

For a moment Munch and Fin look uneasily between them; then John comes to snoop over her shoulder. "Discharge of weapon. Always fun."

Without responding she picks up a pen and begins to fill out the top form. The beginning at least is easy. Name. Rank. Badge number. Date of incident.

John sits companionably on the edge of her desk. "He's stupid and you get saddled with extra paperwork. Classy."

"I can't believe neither of you wound up with a bullet in you," Fin says.

Elliot shakes his head. "The guy's a lousy shot. Missed by a mile."

"There was a bullet hole in the wall behind you," Olivia says, startling everyone into staring at her. "Approximately one inch to your left."

Tension settles over the room like a heavy blanket. She continues to write. Finally John pats her shoulder awkwardly and hops off her desk. "Everything all right, Liv?"

"Fine." She dregs up a smile for him, though, because he's Munch and he's only trying to help. "Thanks, John."

Fin and Elliot have fallen into discussion about another case; John joins them. Olivia slogs through her papers until she feels her partner leaning in behind her in that way he has, for all the world as though nothing happened. "Hey, Liv – " he starts.

She waits a beat, just enough so he knows that she knows exactly who's behind her, and then she lashes out with all her might. Her elbow makes satisfying contact and Elliot doubles over with a grunt. Munch, Fin, and everyone else in the room stop what they're doing to stare.

Calmly Olivia gathers her papers and tucks her pen behind one ear, then stands to consider her partner. He's trying to straighten; she slaps him hard across the face for good measure and storms out of the room.

* * *

He can't sleep.

He couldn't last night either. He tossed and turned without knowing why. And then today Olivia flicked that picture at him and he first thought, _that's why I was up all night._ She always did know him better than he knew himself.

She was right, of course, but tonight he keeps getting flashes of her. Is he imagining that his cheek still stings?

There's an incident stuck in his head that has nothing whatever to do with Sealview, which is of course playing on the backs of his eyelids every time he tries to sleep – Olivia volunteering herself as sacrifice, Olivia frozen and terrified in the warden's office, his own hellish visions of what happened to her. But no. In the midst of all that he keeps thinking of a much calmer moment about six months ago, when they'd been working long hours on a truckload of cases. He was sitting at his desk, wading through a stack of papers, but the foggy patch floating in his vision was obscuring the words. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, shook his head, but it was still there.

"Here," a quiet voice said, and Olivia set a cup of water on his desk. "Drink."

"What?"

"Those spots you're seeing? You're overtired and dehydrated. Drink. It'll pass."

Fuzzily he looked up at her and corrected, "Not spots. Spot. It's moon-shaped and it's moving that way." He jerked his thumb to the left.

"That's good. That means it's almost gone." She nudged the water closer. "Now drink, for the love of God."

He drank.

Now he flings an arm over his eyes and groans to himself; beside him Kathy rolls over in her sleep. The images won't go away. He forces himself to think through the scene, slowly; he forces himself to think like a cop.

Here's what he didn't do, that insignificant day among hundreds of days: he didn't thank her. He didn't ask how she knew what was wrong with him. He didn't ask how often she'd had the same problem. He didn't come at it sideways a day later, to try to find out why she wasn't sleeping. He didn't do anything except let her take care of him.

What does it say about him, he wonders, that it took a literal slap in the face for him to give his own partner a second thought?

* * *

She knows before she hits the pillow that she's never going to sleep. Of course she hasn't slept well since she started having that dream, the one with the two voices, the one with Elliot, _I can't do this anymore_, the kind of dream that's still terrifying when she's awake. But last night, after going back there, last night she barely managed three hours. Tonight is shaping up to be the same.

The captain will send her home, in a few days, telling her she looks like she could use a nap. _Yeah_, she'll say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

No, scratch that. The captain _will_ send her to get her head shrunk, probably tomorrow. Erratic behavior. And since explaining how richly her partner deserved it will only make her look more erratic, not to mention whiny and pathetic, she'll have to go. Ugh. Olivia clambers out of bed, since she's only staring at the ceiling anyway. She writes _Huang_ on a post-it and slaps it on the coffeepot where she can't miss it. Then she wanders over to her sofa and turns on the television.

She used to sleep on the couch like this, after Sealview, when her own bed was too big and scary and quiet. Maybe she should try that tonight. She tries closing her eyes but it's no use: she sees things, she hears things.

At least she'll have the infomercials for company.

* * *

He's remembering the way she used to tense up whenever he got too close. That was one of the first clues. It didn't take a genius to tell that something had happened to her, only someone willing to look. Which he was. Until he stopped.

There was another case, months ago, it must have been around November; he was still looking then. Or was he? He remembers going to her place armed with food and movies; he remembers how she fell asleep with her fingers laced through his. He remembers thinking that he hadn't been looking hard enough. He'd been hit over the head with it. Kind of like he was yesterday, and today.

What happened today? That he barely remembers, adrenaline probably, but he must have been stupid because everyone said so, and Liv, well, she doesn't hit him where it hurts, verbally or literally, unless he's done something very wrong.

_You put yourself in danger. You put your partner in danger._

_But I was distracted,_ he tries to defend himself, _I was upset, I always get like that…_

There it is. After all that it didn't take that much effort to figure it out: today he was too wrapped up in his own shit to watch out for his partner. Just like he was yesterday – and the day before – and the year before that.

* * *

_TBC...pleeeease review! Pretty please?_


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See previous.

* * *

_If the whole wide world is on your back  
If the strength you need is the strength you lack  
If you're in a crowd but all alone  
If you can't stay here but you can't go home  
If you can't answer all the why's  
'Cause you're too tired to reach that high_

_Matthew West_

* * *

George does not seem particularly surprised to see her first thing in the morning. "Hey," he says simply. "Come on in."

Olivia obeys, closing the door softly behind her. "Hi."

"Have a seat," he says, nodding to one of the chairs across from his desk. It looks extremely comfortable. She really doesn't want to sit in it.

"No thanks," she says, and starts to pace the length of his office.

"First things first," he says, businesslike, and when she glances at him he smiles. "Are you here voluntarily, or on order?"

In spite of herself she laughs. "I'm here before it can _become_ involuntary. No offense."

"None taken." He watches her pace for a moment. "I heard about what happened."

"Which thing?" she asks sardonically.

"The part where you beat up your partner."

"I did not _beat_ him _up_," she protests. "I just…expressed my feelings with my elbow. Really, George, I thought you would be proud."

"Well, I'd prefer that you use your words," he says gravely, and winks.

"He deserved it."

"Undoubtedly." George shuffles the papers on his desk. "Why don't you tell me what happened yesterday?"

She takes him through the story of Joseph Saltzman, the ID and the chase and the standoff; she doesn't stumble until the exchange of fire. "I shot him in the arm," she says tightly. "He fell and I went for his gun. I _had_ to. I had to."

"Of course you did," says George, sounding somewhat confused.

"I didn't know," she starts, but the words clog up her throat and it's all she can do to repeat, "I didn't know…"

"Didn't know what?"

She continues to pace. Didn't know about Elliot, whether he was hurt or bleeding or whether, when she called back, she'd be met only with a dreadful silence. She manages to phrase this a little more professionally: "I didn't know…if my partner had been injured."

"He was fine," George says soothingly.

"Yeah." She nods slowly, turning to pace the other way. "He missed…"

"I heard."

"By _this_ much, George." Her thumb and forefinger waver in midair for a moment as she tries to gauge the exact distance, but what the hell, the point is that it's tiny. "_This_ much. There's a bullet hole in the wall of that basement right behind where he was standing."

"That's a pretty close call," George says agreeably. It occurs to her that nothing he's said so far is at all useful.

"Pretty close," she repeats mockingly, wheeling around before she can walk into a wall. "Yeah. Pretty fucking close."

"You were afraid," he says simply.

Strangely, she hears herself laugh. "Oh, yeah. But really, George, who wouldn't be, with bullets bouncing around in a small room and you don't know if your partner's down – "

"It's okay," he interrupts, "it's okay to be scared. That's normal."

He doesn't understand. "It's not," she says, her steps becoming more frantic, "we're not normal, see, we never have been, and what is normal, anyway; and I can't lose him, not like that, I can't, I can't lose him…"

"Olivia," George says gently. "Have a seat."

Obediently she sinks onto the edge of the chair. "I can't lose him," she whispers, as though it is a revelation.

George watches her, wearing the schooled lack of an expression that all shrinks probably practice daily. "This isn't just about yesterday, is it?" he asks.

Of course it's about yesterday. It's about that moment of sheer, mind-numbing terror, the way she had to scramble across the room and do her job even though her knees were literally weak, and who the hell gets weak in the knees these days? It's about Elliot's nearly getting himself killed. She can't lose him like that.

"I can't lose him," she says stubbornly, although thanks to the non-insights of the shrink she's not sure what she means anymore.

"I know you can't."

She thinks she hears something like disapproval in his voice and it makes her mad. "Look, I don't have any real family. Elliot's – you know how it is with us, George."

"I know," he says, and this time she believes him.

"So I hit him because he was stupid and put us both in danger," she concludes. "I knew that already. But I figured I'd get sent down here anyway."

George chooses that moment to throw a curveball at her. "Olivia," he says, in his most gentle tone. "How else do you think you might lose Elliot?"

She stares at him, dumbfounded, and he shrugs. "If it was just about yesterday, you wouldn't have hit him so hard."

Either he's making stuff up, or he's really, really good. Olivia considers the second possibility. What else is she mad at him for? Cragen even said it: for not listening to her. For not paying her any goddamned _attention, _ever. But that's good, really, because if he were paying attention he'd know, and then… that's what fueled her rage too, this hell he's been putting her through.

"I can't lose him," she murmurs as the words take on new meaning. She thinks back on the session. She's _afraid_ to lose him. She's afraid to let him see her, because then she very well might.

"George," she announces, "I am a coward."

Suddenly the whole situation strikes her as unbearably funny.

* * *

The squadroom becomes instantly, miraculously silent the moment she steps into it. Most of its occupants look uncomfortably at her or at the floor. Fin grimaces. Munch catches her eye and mimes applause. He's so unhelpful that it's amusing. Elliot has his head in a file and doesn't look up when she drops her bag on her desk.

She hasn't thought that he might actually be pissed at her for hitting him. Despite the secrets she's working so hard to keep from him, she's used to the idea that he knows what she's thinking, he knows her _why_s, usually better than she does.

Olivia frowns at him for a moment, then gives up. She knows _him_, at any rate; and if he is mad it won't last long. It's not a deal-breaker.

"Benson," Cragen calls from his office, and she sighs. _Right on schedule._

For the second time today she closes an office door behind her. "Sorry I'm late."

The captain ignores her. "I've got several versions of what happened between you and your partner yesterday, Detective, but they all express concern for his manhood."

She rolls her eyes but manages to contain any snarky comments about Elliot's manhood.

"I'm sending you down to Huang."

"I already went. That's why I was late."

For a moment she enjoys the sight of her boss with his mouth agape. "You – "

"Already had my head shrunk, yes. Ask Huang, he'll tell you."

"No, no, I believe you." He's still looking at her curiously. "Care to share?"

"Not particularly."

"All right then. You understand I'll be talking to him."

"Naturally." She isn't worried. Huang is an expert at sorting what needs to be told in these situations from what needs to be kept confidential.

"Good," he says, and she turns to leave. "Detective?"

"Yes?"

"I'm no shrink." She sneaks a look back at him and he's settling into his desk chair, comfortable now. "But personally, I think it would be good for Elliot's mental health if you did that more than once every twelve years."

She cracks a smile. "I'll keep that in mind, captain."

* * *

"He's going to say the sex was consensual," Alex informs them.

"Oh, no," Olivia says. "No way are we letting him get out of this."

"Assault of an officer will get him some decent time, but if we can win the homicide too he'll never get out." Alex chews her lower lip and looks around at the assembled detectives. "Is there any evidence to say he _didn't_ have sex with her and leave before someone else killed her?"

"You mean, besides the fact that he's a dirtbag and tried to evade arrest?" Elliot snorts.

"That means nothing." When no-one has anything else to say she rolls her eyes. "Well, then find me some."

* * *

"I'm going back to Sealview, see Emma," Elliot says to the room at large. "Maybe get a solid motive." He looks at Munch, who looks back innocently.

"Stop that," Olivia sighs. "I'm coming with you."

Elliot glares at her, then steps behind her desk and leans down so only she can hear him. "I was _trying_ to give you an out."

"You're an ass," she retorts. "I don't need you to give me _outs_." She stands, so that he has to move away or get run over by her chair.

On their way out she stops next to John at the coffeepot. "You know, for a total idiot you're not half-bad," she murmurs.

"Gee, thanks." He holds up the pot and she shakes her head. "Go get 'em, Liv."

She lifts her chin, levels her gaze. What's he getting at? He offers her a more subdued version of his signature grin, claps her on the shoulder, and leaves her standing there confused.

* * *

_TBC..._

_Pleasepleaseplease review!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: See previous._

* * *

_So, so you think you __can tell  
Heaven from Hell,  
Blue skies from pain.  
Can you tell a green field  
From a cold steel rail?  
A smile from a veil?  
Do you think you can tell?_

_Pink Floyd_

* * *

Elliot has parked at the prison before he finally looks at her, _Liv, don't move, this isn't settled._ On balance she seems to decide to let him talk.

"I'll cover for you," he says awkwardly. "If, you know, you don't want to go in there."

Olivia tilts her head, a challenge in her eyes. "Do you want me in there?"

He does, really, because he has a feeling Emma will trust her. Usually they can both tell, within a few minutes, which of them will get through to anyone. Usually they look to each other, communicating with eyebrows and nods, before moving in for the kill. He knows. This one is hers.

But if he can possibly keep her from being hurt, he'll be damned if he doesn't try.

"Here's the thing," she sighs. "I'm a coward. That's why I'm going in."

"Huh?" he says blankly, but she's already slammed the car door behind her.

* * *

So far, so good. He makes sure to stay close to his partner as they are led to a conference room, because it's the one thing he knows how to do. She's tense, but she's all right.

That is, of course, what he thought last time.

When Emma Taylor enters the room in her orange jumpsuit, he feels her stiffen further; he leans forward across the table, brushing her arm in the process. "Hey, Emma. Remember me?"

"I'll never forget," Emma says, sinking down across from them. She looks curiously at Olivia.

"This is my partner," he says. "Detective Benson."

Olivia smiles at the girl and slides across their photo of Joseph Saltzman. "How well do you know him?"

"That's Garrett," Emma says slowly. "My – my boyfriend."

"And your supplier?" She manages the words so gently that Emma just nods, as though she'd said "tutor."

"That too." Biting her lower lip, she looks between them. "Did – did he kill Anna?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Elliot says.

"You don't seem surprised," Olivia adds.

Emma sighs. "Anna always asked me why I was stickin' with him. I used to tell her – I'd say something like, you spent two hours watchin' TV today, didn't you know you shoulda been doin' your homework? And she'd say yeah, but I couldn't stop. And I'd say, it's like that. So no. I'm not surprised."

"So your sister didn't like him?" Olivia asks.

"She _hated_ him. We got in huge fights about him all the time…" Emma swallows hard and looks at Olivia, who nods. "She didn't like when I hung out with him instead of her. She just had a feeling, she said. When… when she found out that I was usin' again, she guessed that I was gettin' it from him."

"She didn't know all along?"

"I tried to hide it. She was doing so good, you know? She was gonna graduate and everything."

"Okay," Olivia says, nodding. "So she found out. Then what happened?"

"She flipped. Said she was gonna go to the police, turn him in."

"Did Garrett know that she said that?"

"Yeah. I told him to run."

"Okay. When did all this happen?"

"The day I got busted. I was so distracted thinkin' about Anna that I ran a red light. Cops found my stash in the trunk."

Olivia lets out a breath and glances at Elliot. It's pay dirt: if he remembers right, Emma was arrested last Thursday. The day before her sister's murder.

"Emma," Olivia starts again, and he settles back to let her run the show.

* * *

"Let's take a detour." She makes sure not to phrase it as a question. She will call these shots, dammit.

Elliot looks at her sidelong. She can tell that he badly wants to say something along the lines of _good job_, but they both know that nothing was remarkable about that interview except its location within the walls of Sealview. So instead he just doesn't argue. She does love when he's predictable.

"Hey," she says to the CO stationed at the end of the hall. "Mind if we take a walk through B block?"

The woman squints at her. "Do I know you?"

"Sure you do," Elliot says from behind her. "She arrested one of your captains a while back."

"Lowell Harris? Bastard." The CO shakes her head and lets them in.

For a long moment Olivia can't move, can't make herself step into the familiar rows of cages. She can feel Elliot, silent at her back. _It's okay,_ she tells herself, hating herself at the same time. _He's here. Nothing can happen._

_I'm unarmed._

_It doesn't matter. You're a cop again. Who's the bitch now?_

She takes one step forward. Then another. Elliot's heavy footsteps follow hers. She can do this.

She pauses by her former cell just long enough to ascertain that Amber no longer lives in it. Then a shout of "Kat!" draws her attention. She glances at Elliot, who appears to be sizing up the cage that he now knows to have been hers, and follows the voice down the catwalk.

"Kat!" Shauna yells again, hanging her arms through the bars. "Is that really you?"

"In the flesh." Olivia clasps her hand quickly. "How are you?"

"All right. Girl, I been wanting to talk to you. The stories flyin' around are _incredible._"

"It's been a year since I was here."

Shauna rolls her eyes. "Yeah, but nothing that interesting ever happens around here."

"Good point."

"So you're a cop, huh?"

Only here could she possibly feel guilty about that. "Yeah."

A smile unfolds across Shauna's face. "Finally. A cop who makes herself useful."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"And who's he?" Shauna jerks her head at Elliot as he stalks past them. "He looks pissed."

Olivia watches her partner situate himself at the far end of the catwalk, hands behind his back, at his most intimidating. "That's my partner. Elliot. And… maybe I hit him pretty hard yesterday."

"Huh."

"He deserved it, I promise you."

"You should dump him."

"No, no, he's a good guy. Just stupid."

"Whatever." Shauna turns her attention back to her. "Is Kat even your real name?"

"No. I'm Olivia."

"Olivia," Shauna repeats. "You ain't ever been a junkie, have you?"

"No. I am, however, addicted to chocolate and self-pity."

Shauna laughs. "I think you just described every woman in New York."

"Probably." Even small joys are infectious; Olivia smiles back. "My turn. Where's Amber?"

"Out, the lucky bitch. It's Denise and Maria in that cell now."

Olivia accepts this. Sealview itself has moved on further than she has with regard to it. "How are things around here, really?"

"For real? A lot better since we got rid of Captain Touchy-Feely."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I hear everything. None of them take what's not given anymore. If you know what I mean."

She looks around at the lines of women, nodding to herself. This is what she has to remember: that yes, she put herself in harm's way when she came here. But she did it for a damn good reason.

"Liv!" Elliot calls. When she glances down at him he's speaking rapidly into his phone.

"I gotta go," she tells Shauna.

"I didn't think you'd let him tell you what to do."

"Oh, believe me, I don't. But we are supposed to be, you know, doing our jobs."

"Right. Kat? I mean – "

"It's okay."

"Habit, you know. In the stories you're always Kat. Anyway. I get out soon. Can I…" Shauna trails off, clearly uncertain.

Olivia rummages for one of her cards and a pen, then scribbles her cell number on the back. "Here. Call me, okay?"

"Liv!" Elliot yells again.

"Bye," both women say at once.

* * *

"Cragen wants us back," he says as they finally step out into the sunshine. "Break in the Hickley case."

Olivia nods and folds her arms tight across her chest. He goes to touch her shoulder, to make a start at fixing this without words, but she flinches away violently as soon as he gets close. Elliot steels himself and steps ahead, leading the way to the sedan. "Liv, are you – "

"Don't, Elliot." She catches up with him in a few quick steps; when he glances sideways he can tell that she's shivering despite the sun. Nevertheless she fixes her famous glare on him. "Just don't."

Getting off prison grounds comes first, he decides. Then they can talk. He makes this his plan, unaware that what she's thinking is, _Don't pretend like you give a damn._

_

* * *

_

TBC...

Pleasepleaseplease review!


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

* * *

_It's like you're drowning right in front of me  
And I'm reaching out but you can't see  
There's something holding on to you so tight  
So I guess this is all I'll say to you tonight_

_Matthew West_

* * *

"Elliot, what the hell are you doing?"

"Stopping."

"I can see that." She looks out the window at the gas station he's just pulled into, then leans over to check the dashboard. "The tank's full."

"I know." He just looks at her, willing her to understand what he's trying to do.

"I thought we were supposed to be getting back to the house."

He's not letting her get away this time. He tries to say this but it's not in what he practiced and the words get all tangled up before he opens his mouth. Goddammit. He owes it to her to be able to do this right.

"El," she says, "what the _fuck_."

"The case will be fine if we stop for five minutes."

"But we don't need to stop for five minutes."

"I do. Will you just listen to me?"

Recoiling ever so slightly, she shakes her head and he takes this as a yes.

"Look," he starts. "I know I've been an ass lately."

"El, stop it."

"No, you stop it," he says, more forcefully than he intended. "Just don't say anything for a few minutes, okay?"

"This is stupid," she growls. He locks the car before she can get to the door handle. Olivia clenches her jaw and elects to stare out the window.

"Okay," he says, trying to regain his footing. "So. I'm an ass. I know that. Actually everyone knows that. But anyway. I know you've been having a hard time the past few days. But I've been an ass for a lot longer than that. I know this isn't the first time you've had trouble since… stuff happened, stuff you haven't told me about, but that's no excuse. I wasn't there for you like I should have been. And that's on me." He swallows hard. "What I'm trying to say is, I just want to help you. Any way I can. Okay? And also I guess I'm trying to say I'm sorry."

He stops there because that's all he's got, and because if he goes much longer he runs the risk of losing her. There's a lot he doesn't know about her anymore, but he does know that pushing her too hard will hurt more than it helps.

Olivia is still looking determinedly out the window. "Elliot," she says quietly.

He sits up straight, daring to hope that she'll give him something. "Yeah?"

"Drive."

Obediently he shoves the car into gear, then remembers one last thing. "Oh, and Liv? Nice."

He's fairly sure she knows what he's talking about, but in any case she doesn't ask. Instead she maintains a stony silence all the way back to the house.

* * *

The team spends what little is left of the day on the murder of Ted Hickley, pausing only when Alex drops by so that Elliot and Olivia can spell out Joseph Saltzman's motive to kill Annabel Taylor. Alex nods in approval when they're done talking. "See," she says, "I told you you could do it."

Around seven Munch shoves his work away and looks at Olivia. Both their partners have disappeared on various errands, and the room is quiet except for the two of them. John's always liked it like that. For a moment he just watches her work.

"Munch," she says without looking up, "stop checking me out."

"But it's so much fun."

She doesn't even smile. That he hates. He is a man lacking in many departments when it comes to women – sometimes he thinks he's been cursed – but he's always been able to make them laugh. Especially Olivia.

"Hey, Liv," he says, standing. He leans against the side of her desk and she grudgingly looks up. "How'd it go today?"

"How'd what go?"

Okay, not pressing that issue. "Is everything all right?" he asks, even though he knows it's not. No-one slaps their partner around if everything's all right.

Olivia exhales slowly; he can practically hear her counting to ten. "I'm fine, John," she says. "But I did have to see Huang today, so I've had enough talking about my feelings if you don't mind."

"Okay. In that case, I'm hungry. Care to grab dinner with me?"

"Dinner with you," she says suspiciously.

"No talking about feelings, I promise. More than happy to leave that to the shrinks."

She nods. "All right then."

* * *

When he makes it back to the squad room that night, only Fin is left. "Where –" Elliot starts.

"Our partners ditched us," Fin says, and considers. "To be fair, I guess we ditched 'em first."

To his private shame, Elliot is relieved that Olivia isn't there. Ever since his little speech this afternoon it's taken everything he has not to act differently, not to tiptoe around her as though she's an invalid. She doesn't deserve that – she didn't do anything to warrant it today, he did, he's the one who shoved their shit into the open and made it that much harder to ignore. And what's more, the last thing she wants right now is to be treated like she's made of glass. He may not know much but he does know that.

"El," Fin says quietly. "How'd it really go at Sealview?"

The two men square off awkwardly. Elliot has the urge to say, _I could ask you the same thing, _only he knows it's really a different question, because he wants to know about a year ago and he wants specifics. And that, above all, is not fair to Olivia.

"Honest to God?" he asks.

"Yeah."

Slowly Elliot shakes his head. "I… I really don't think I could do it like she does. You know?"

He won't go into details, but this is all Fin needs. "That's Liv," he says happily, and sits down to finish his paperwork.

* * *

At dinner she gets as much as she thinks she can stand to eat, which amounts to a bowl of soup, and then tries to smile and nod at the right places when John talks. At first she thinks she's getting it wrong, but soon enough she doesn't have to act anymore. John's good at that.

The feeling quickly wears off, though, when they have to return to work. Acutely conscious of her partner across the desk, Olivia quickly wades through enough work to justify getting the hell out of there, praying that they won't get called out.

For once in her life, the higher powers are on her side, and she manages to make it home without incident. Tonight she doesn't bother with the pretense of bed. After all, she reasons, there is absolutely no point to pretenses with nobody around to fool.

Some corner of her mind knows that physically, she's beyond exhausted already, she's barely slept in two nights and besides, hurting and hiding both take a lot of energy. But she's wide-awake, no matter how much she might wish to be otherwise. The adrenaline's still going, blurring the world. What a _day._

As if being shrunk wouldn't have given her enough to mull over, now that she finally has a moment to herself. No, then Elliot had to go and – hell, she's not even sure what he did. Her heart was pounding so hard while he talked that she could hardly hear what he said. She feels like she spent the rest of the day testing the waters, trying to figure out where they now stand.

Where they stand, strangely enough, does not seem to have changed one whit. Olivia finds this incredible. Surely it's the wrong conclusion. Surely when they come in tomorrow morning, the other shoe will drop.

Calm down, she orders herself, and starts thinking about alcohol. She needs some, badly. Unfortunately she seems to have drunk all the beer in her apartment. Clearly everything in her life is going to shit.

Okay, Olivia, calm down. Calm down.

The first thing she realized today was that she is absolutely petrified of her partner's reaction if he ever finds out what happened to her. The second thing was that, thus knowing what she stands to lose, she is capable of walking the halls of Sealview Correctional.

The third was that Elliot's been keeping secrets too.

_I just want to help you._

So many ways she could shoot that down. _I don't need your help_? True, but she does want it so badly that it hurts. And maybe that's the same as need.

_I know,_ he kept saying. _I know I know I know._ The words drum through her head relentlessly, a malediction. He doesn't even, he can't really know because she hasn't said a damn thing, but with whatever he's pieced together she's still doomed. He knows that she let herself get hurt. He knows that she can't handle it without him.

She's about to lose everything.

And yet.

He did sound so sincere._ I just want to help you._

It's wholly ridiculous to be so afraid of talking to her own partner, the man who's supposed to be her best friend, especially when she really wants to. Or needs to. Whatever. But George did keep saying it's okay to be afraid, and George is usually right, no matter how much the cop in her hates to give any credit to a shrink.

Maybe the fear is telling her something.

Maybe it's telling her to be brave.

In the wee hours of the morning she finally passes out on the couch with the mantra _I know I know I know _buzzing through her consciousness, softening at the edges until it becomes a lullaby.

* * *

_TBC..._

_I promise the moment(s) you're all waiting for is coming. Soonish. Mwahaha. Pleasepleaseplease review!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: See previous._

* * *

_Breathe in, breathe out  
Move on and break down  
If everyone goes away I will stay  
We push and pull  
And I fall down sometimes  
But I'm not letting go  
You hold the other line_

_Mat Kearney_

* * *

The shrink she has since stopped going to once asked her who she could "talk to about all this." "I thought that was your job," she remembers joking.

"Who in your real life," the woman clarified. "Have you told anyone?"

"Kind of," she said, thinking of Melinda. "Not really."

"Who could you go to?"

Olivia shrugged. She recalls trying to act as if it were no big deal. "No-one."

But shrinks have a sixth sense, and so the issue had been pressed. "Okay… so if you were in jail, who would bail you out?"

"No-one," she quipped, "I'd be disowned."

"Right, bad example. Say you were… badly hurt. Who would sit with you in the hospital?"

"Elliot," she said automatically, because every once in a while she dreams of him rushing to her side in that train station three years ago. "My partner."

Characteristically, her shrink got right to the point. "Why haven't you told him?"

She didn't know, back then, and she kept silent, refusing to try to figure it out. She remembers thinking of her partnership as a balance that ought not be touched lest it tip.

"Olivia," her stupid shrink said, once she'd sat there obstinately for a few moments. "You should tell him. It'll help."

It's pretty obvious why she's thinking about that this morning.

Her phone is ringing as she steps into the squad room. It's Alex.

"Just letting you all know that I'm arraigning Saltzman in about five minutes," she says. "His lawyer's a schmuck. Just let me know which of you I get to torture for trial."

Olivia laughs. What Alex and Casey both understand, but Greylek never figured out, is how much they all hate trial prep. "I think I'll let you torture Elliot this time. Sound good?"

"Deal. Need anything?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure something will come up by the end of the day."

"Probably. Okay. I have to go."

She hangs up, nearly runs headlong into her partner, and stops breathing.

"Morning," he says, opting not to comment on her awkwardness. "Just took a call from the beat cops. You coming?"

"Just let me – "

"Coffee," he says, handing her one of the cups in his hands as she drops her bag on her desk chair.

What she finds herself thinking, before she can second-guess it, is _he knows me too well._

"Let's go," she says.

* * *

For most of the day she lets herself believe that everything has returned to normal. No more Annabel Taylor, no more visits to Sealview, no more embarrassing nightmares.

Except that the dreams aren't going away.

And there is the very odd way all the guys keep looking at her. After Munch pats her shoulder in passing for the third time, she realizes that Elliot's eye on her isn't anything special. They're all doing it. They're worried about her, just a little. She knows this because she's done it to each of them.

"Liv?" Elliot asks at one point, as they're parking the sedan, in his best _I'm-not-asking-about-work_ tone.

"I'm thinking," she says.

"Okay."

As they step out of the car and head inside she gets a whiff of his scent, some mix of cologne and soap and god-knows-what-else that is uniquely Elliot; and she's catapulted back to the very first time she saw him after Sealview, as she and Fin dragged Lowell Harris into interrogation. Something in Elliot's eyes shifted the moment he saw her, but he didn't say anything then. And he stayed a safe distance away, for which she was secretly grateful. But for a moment he'd passed just close enough that she could smell him, and the knot in her chest loosened.

That was the moment she knew it was really over.

"Liv?" Elliot says in a much different tone. _Pay attention._

"Yeah," she says.

* * *

He bumps into her in the hallway midway through the afternoon, as they're both heading back into the bullpen. "Hey," John says.

"Hey," Olivia echoes quietly, and after about two steps looks at him hard. "John."

"Yeah?"

"You can stop worrying about me, okay?"

He stops right there and drags her to a halt with him, because that's close to the last thing he expected to hear her say. "Well," he says inconsequentially. "That's good to hear."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

He doesn't. He always knows when to worry about her: he can read the signs because they are two of a kind. "I'll stop worrying about you when you stop worrying about you," he tells her.

Olivia huffs in frustration and avoids his eyes. "I'm fine."

In this way they really are alike: they both feel that they are required to be fine. Stabler is prone to public fits of anger, Fin doesn't mind letting people know that he's pissed; but John and Olivia keep themselves to themselves. That's how it's supposed to go.

"That's the thing," he says. "We don't always have to be fine." He realizes that he's still gripping her arm and lets her go.

She's looking at him now, though, with an unprecedented question in her eyes. "It's gonna be okay," he says in answer before sauntering away.

* * *

For long stretches of time Elliot is able to forget that anything is going on. It helps, of course, that his partner is also intent on forgetting. Like everything else they do, they deny better when they do it together. They've got the seamless-work thing going on, the silent agreement.

The ball's in her court now and they both know it. He made the first, tentative move and now he has to be patient, so that she can come to him. Honest to God, he doesn't mind waiting. That's a mark of his Olivia. He figures it to mean that fundamentally, she really is all right.

So he'll wait. And in the meantime they'll work.

That's what he's thinking when he calls it a night and heads home. John packs up about the same time, while Fin and Olivia both shake their heads, opting to stay a little later tonight. Elliot tries for a moment to catch his partner's eye, but apparently she senses this because she refuses to look up.

That's okay, he tells himself. He's _waiting._

* * *

You're supposed to face what you're afraid of, right?

Right.

The hell of it is that Elliot probably thinks she's already done that: she went back there again. And this time she didn't flake out. But she can't ignore the truth: going in was easier than the alternative. The potential consequences of staying behind, of letting him cover for her, were far more terrifying than walking through a prison with her partner at her side.

She's a coward.

She's been having enough trouble living with the bald fact of his ignorance; she doesn't think she can live with this as well. Detective Olivia Benson is not supposed to be a coward. She's supposed to be brave.

In this vein she is replaying that day in the basement. And when Elliot's voice intrudes, she's not shoving it away.

And also she's been moving. She hasn't made it home yet tonight; instead she rode the subway for a while, got off near a park with a vague notion of feeding some ducks or something like that, realized it was dark, and rode the subway some more. Now she's sitting in a mildly sketchy twenty-four hour diner, which is mostly empty and staffed by a waitress named Jenny who started out perky but gets less cheerful every time Olivia says she doesn't need anything else and continues to sit there nursing her coffee. Letting the horrors of her nightmares spill through her waking brain.

Elliot's intruding voice doesn't have much to say really, just the same few lines over and over again. _I can't do this anymore… looking over my shoulder… not wait for me to come to the rescue…_

It's a lot harder to remember while she's also at the mercy of Lowell Harris, reduced to terrified pleading for her life, her choice.

When she's not digging her fingernails into her palms she wonders if this qualifies as self-torture. But she can't help it. What she's known all along but refused to admit to herself is this: one she hasn't fully dealt with any of this; and two, she really needs to.

_I just want to help you_, he said.

Poor put-upon Jenny, whose cheer has turned to boredom, is heading her way; Olivia forestalls her question with another. "Be brave, right?"

"There's bravery and then there's stupidity," Jenny says pragmatically, refilling her mug of coffee. "'Course, there's also normal fear and then stupidity." She catches Olivia's startled look. "I consider the graveyard shift like a bar. Lots of people needing hard advice."

It's true that the only thing keeping her away from a bar is that that's exactly what her mother would have done.

"If it's important enough," Jenny says, then walks away to another patron before Olivia recognizes her words as an answer.

* * *

_TBC..._

_Pleeeease review!_

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

_FYI, the song this week is "Better Days" and is possibly the best song ever written. I highly recommend it. Hmm, there's an idea for next season's post-eps..._

_...And here we go!_

* * *

_So take these words and sing out loud  
'Cause everyone is forgiven now  
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again_

_Goo Goo Dolls_

* * *

Hmm, he thinks fuzzily. It's dark. That means it's not morning. That means he's not supposed to be awake yet….

Without the participation of his mind, his hand shoots out, presses a button on his phone and brings it to his ear. "Sta'ler," he mumbles.

Form far away, a familiar voice says something very fast. Elliot sits up and rubs his eyes. "Whoa. Liv? That you?"

"I woke you up," she says, instantly contrite. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to, I didn't realize it was so late – "

From this he deduces that she isn't calling about work; he relaxes slightly and settles against his pillow. "It's twelve-thirty. Not that late."

"I'm sorry."

"Her voice is so small that he's starting to get concerned and his head isn't even free of sleep yet. "Hey," he says lightly. "I'm your partner. That means not only are you entitled to wake me up whenever you want, you're actually obligated to."

"Obligated," she repeats.

"Yeah. You need to keep me on my toes."

"Gotcha."

"Okay," he says, now that he's a little more awake. "What were you saying? More slowly this time."

"I… it's not important."

Like hell it's not. "You wouldn't call me at twelve-thirty in the morning unless it was important," he says patiently, even though the hesitations in her voice are all he really needs to know this.

She clears her throat. "I… I just, I had to tell you that… you do help me."

This is approximately the last thing he was expecting, and it's a statement so profound that he can't think of what to say.

"You said you just want to help me," she says hurriedly, "and I don't want you to think you don't…"

"I wasn't there for you," he says in protest.

"That's true," she says quietly.

Even though he was perfectly aware of the fact, hearing it in her voice still hits like a blow to the gut, so breathtaking that he can't manage the words _I'm sorry._

"But you were _there,_" she goes on, "you know, physically, there, and that… that's not nothing. It helps."

Her words have a challenge to them, a_ wanna-make-something-of-it?_ kind of tone. He's used to that from her, though, and he's busy concentrating on what she's actually saying. "Liv," he says, trying not to sound shocked. "That's not enough."

"Well," she says uncomfortably. "It's a lot to me."

He closes his eyes against the darkness, because this hurts, and he's trying to figure out how to convince her that she deserves so much better than that when it occurs to him to go in an entirely different direction. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

In the code he cracked years ago, this means that she is very much not fine. And also she probably knows that he knows that.

He wonders when it became all about keeping up appearances.

"You want me to come over?"

"No!"

"All right," he says, taken aback by her vehemence. "Geez. I won't then. Can I ask why?"

He's not expecting an answer, but instead of changing the subject she hedges. "Well…"

"Well?"

"I'm kind of already in Queens."

He spends a moment trying to decode this one, then gives up and calls it a good thing, a step, an invitation. "Okay. Where are you?"

"Um. Some kind of trashy diner that's still open." She mumbles this information and the cross streets very quickly.

"Okay," he says again. He gets the feeling he'll be saying that a lot tonight. "You sit tight. I'll be there soon."

"Elliot," she says, in a last-ditch attempt to lock him out, "you don't have to – "

"Yes I do," he says clearly. "You're my partner."

* * *

While he drives he coaches himself. Patience, because this is incredibly difficult for her already. Compassion, duh, and that shouldn't be hard because this is _his_ Olivia, _his_ partner, and all he wants is for her to be herself again.

The tricky part is going to be balancing that with the fact that she is his partner, after all, and she's bound to get defensive and suspicious and will most likely hit him again if she thinks he's treating her like any other victim.

And she hits damn hard.

He nearly runs off the road because he's busy pounding the steering wheel in frustration. This shouldn't' be so complicated, taking care of her. It should be simple. It should be _instinctive._

On the heels of that thought comes another: why not?

As he finally finds the diner and pulls into a parking space, he's telling himself a new line: he'll follow his instincts. And her. With luck he can handle this like they used to years ago.

He finds her hunched over a cup of coffee in a booth by the window; Elliot slides in next to her. "Hey."

Olivia regards him with amusement lurking in her eyes. "You know that's way number five to ruin a first date before it starts."

"What is?"

"Sitting on the same side of the table."

"Really? Number five?"

"I got about seventeen."

He doesn't ask if they're all from personal experience. "Well. Good thing this isn't a first date then." To prove it he slouches down and props his feet on the seat opposite.

"Making yourself comfortable?"

"You know it." A waitress approaches and he waves her off with a "Just coffee, thanks."

"She's really gonna hate us," Olivia murmurs.

"Why?"

"'Cause I've been sitting here for at least three hours going, 'Just coffee, thanks.'"

"Maybe I'll have to get some food then," he says speculatively, looking around for a menu.

"Pig."

He grins. She's calling him names; that's either a good sign or she's still trying to fight this. "How you doing?"

"I'm all right." She cups both hands around her coffee. "How are the kids?"

"Liv –"

"Elliot." She tips her head back to look him in the eye. "How are the kids? Tell me about them."

_You owe me,_ her eyes say. _Please_. And since this small reprieve is within his power to grant, he thinks back to the stories the twins shared over dinner and he takes his coffee from the cross-looking waitress and he starts to talk.

He's not sure how long he goes on; thanks to an active one-year-old and two cases of teenage self-absorption his repository of stories is endless, most involving friend drama (Lizzie scorns it but knows all the details anyway), various attempts to pass the drivers' test, and Eli's discovery of worms (much to his mother's chagrin). Olivia listens and sips her coffee, unusually quiet. Another woman might not want to hear about such frivolous things right now, but she's never been like any other woman. She's more like him, finding these small things a welcome distraction, knowing from long experience that tragedy comes in large doses but happiness does not. So he talks while customers arrive and eat and leave around them, while the waitress's high heels click back and forth across the checkered floor, while outside the window the night deepens. He talks until something breaks in the kitchen and he accidentally brushes against her shoulder and realizes that she's shaking.

"Hey," he murmurs, cutting himself off midsentence. "You okay?"

She nods but keeps her lips pressed tightly together as though she's afraid of what might slip out.

"You wanna get out of here?"

After a moment of hesitation she looks up at him, then nods again, slowly.

"Okay," he says, then looks away so that he can wave at the waitress for their check. Olivia moves for her bag but he gets to it first, stashes it on his other side and pays himself.

"Can I have my bag back?" she asks waspishly when he stand to let her out of the booth.

"If you insist." That's the way to get actual words out of her, he notes: annoy her.

Neither of them seems to have anywhere in mind to go, so they just walk, silently at first because the darkness fills the space between them better than words ever could.

"I'm sorry," he says finally.

"For what?"

"Because I should have done this a long time ago."

"Oh? And what exactly are you doing?"

"I'm not exactly sure."

Apparently this is the right answer because she smiles a little and ducks her head. Heartened, he runs with it. "But whatever it… Liv. I should have been there for you all along."

"You keep saying that," she notes.

"Maybe because it's true." He pauses to consider the red light in front of them; there are no cars coming anywhere but they wait anyway and he kicks the pavement absently. "You know, this is the part where you're supposed to be furious with me."

"I'm not mad at you."

"No, really. I don't mind. I deserve it."

"Elliot." She shakes her hair back to look him in the eye. "I'm not. I'm not mad."

He can't help but gape at her. "Why the hell not?"

"It takes too much energy."

"Liar."

Caught, she breaks his gaze in favor of studying the sidewalk. "I…I was mad at you. For a long time. But, El, that was the easy way out. I'm not doing that anymore."

Before he can formulate a question she lifts her face to his once more. "You're here now," she says hesitantly.

"Yeah." He can't tell why there's fear in her eyes and then she looks to the traffic light, which has long since turned green. Without another word they cross.

* * *

TBC...

Pleeeeease review! Oh and a gold star to ally for being scarily perceptive.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: See previous._

_Geez, you guys have high expectations. I hope I live up to them... (gulp). I'm glad everybody's enjoying this!_

* * *

_Love when you can  
Cry when you have to  
Be who you must  
That's a part of the plan_

_Dan Fogelberg_

* * *

When he circles right, thinking vaguely of not getting too far away from his car, Olivia turns too. When he pauses, so does she. It's like a quiet and mildly depressing game of follow the leader.

He doesn't know how to do this.

But this is at least the fourth time he's been struck by this thought, and as before he pushes it away. He may not do this very often, but he can do it now. He has to.

Olivia nudges his elbow. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Nuh-uh. These are quality thoughts."

She laughs softly, indicating that he's really not that funny at all. "Are you expecting the story? Of what happened in the basement?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. "Should I be?"

"I don't know either." She hunches her shoulders against the spring breeze. "Maybe. You did come out here in the middle of the night – "

"Stop right there," he interrupts. "You don't owe me anything."

"I know," she sighs. "I know, I just…"

She's shivering again; Elliot stops walking and takes her by the shoulders. "Liv."

"Mmm," she says, shaking off his hands but letting him go on.

"You don't have to say anything if you're not ready. You don't have to tell me anything ever unless you want to. Okay?"

"That's sweet, El," she says; he can sense the _but_ coming and knows that once again he's failed at reading her. Again she looks him in the eye, suddenly determined in the seesaw of emotions that she seems to be riding tonight. "But I don't think I'll be able to sleep at night until I do."

* * *

She almost wishes she had a camera, he looks so dumbfounded. Is the idea that she might need him really so incredible to him?

But she knows the answer to that. It's yes, because she made it that way.

"Huh?" Elliot finally manages.

She crosses her arms and tries to sort it out so that it will make some kind of sense. "I… I've just been thinking,if I died tomorrow – not that that's likely," she adds hastily at the look on his face. "But if something did happen… I once told you you knew everything about me."

"As I recall, you were trying to make me feel guilty."

Olivia laughs in spite of herself, then has to remember where she was. "True. So if… no-one would know all about me. Because that's you, El, but you don't know this. And lately… I've been having trouble living with that."

Elliot nods slowly. _I get it,_ his eyes say, but he says, "You gotta admit I have a pretty good record of keeping you from dying."

"True again." She wishes he'd stop joking. It's a nice thought, really it is, but she's trying to tell him something and it's not funny. She hates him for making her laugh. She can't forget why they're here, or she'll lose her chance and then she'll lose her nerve.

Dammit, this train of thought must be showing because Elliot is squeezing her shoulders. "Liv," he says gently. "You all right?"

What's the point of answering that question? He already knows that she's not all right. He already discovered.

"Liv," he says. "When was the last time you let someone take care of you?"

She huffs, trying to hide the tears that have sprung to her eyes. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"True," he says, and she wonders if he's trying to imitate her. "You're also perfectly capable of kicking my ass, but that doesn't mean you have to do it tonight."

"Wanna bet?" she mutters. He's still got her by the shoulders, as if he can tell that his proximity is the only thing letting her keep her head. She can't bear to shake him off; it's all she can do to challenge, "When was the last time _you _did?"

"Tonight," he says at once, then frowns. "Or technically last night, I guess. Whatever. I came home and I let Kathy feed me and the twins talked at me for about an hour. Which as you know is a very nice distraction."

She does know. And what's more he answered when she was expecting only hedging and vague double standards. And that makes her wonder if maybe he isn't right after all. Olivia tries to decipher his face and is surprised by how easy it is; she doesn't need her twelve years of experience to read his sincerety and earnestness and something else, a subtle mix of pain and regret and joy and peace that she can't put a name to but recognizes anyway, because it's mirrored in herself.

The words escape her before she thinks better of it. "You want to take care of me?"

"Yes."

"I'm high-maintenance."

"Yeah right. Now Munch, on the other hand – "

"Stop," she says, and he does. She tries in vain to regain her footing. "How were you planning on doing that, exactly?"

"Well," he says, quietly, sensing that this part of the battle has been won. "I figured I'd start by taking you home." He starts walking back towards the diner and she follows automatically. "I'm guessing you haven't been there yet."

"How did you know?"

"For starters, you're wearing the same clothes you wore to work."

"Right." She glances down at herself and confesses, "I rode the subway in circles for a while."

"Anybody interesting?"

"Nothing we don't see every day." The silence grows awkward quickly so she adds, "I did get a kick out of the girl riding around at eleven reading Tolstoy and listening to rap."

"Kids these days are multitalented."

"I guess so. El."

"Yeah."

_You can go home, if you want. I'll be fine._ The words would come so easily, except that she doesn't want him to go home. "Thank you," she says instead, and then the silence is all right for a while.

* * *

On the drive back to Manhattan Olivia falls asleep against the passenger-side window. Elliot glances her way every few minutes, amazed by this turn of events. Then again he knows perfectly well that she hasn't been sleeping properly. By now it's probably just pure exhaustion.

He hates to wake her up when he parks outside her building, but of course it can't be helped. He does wait a moment to really look at her in the harsh glare of the streetlights, to wonder when her face developed those faint lines. He has felt himself growing older, but he has not paid enough attention to notice it happening to her.

"Rise and shine," he says, once he's got past the shame in his throat.

Typically, she sits up straight, instantly, wide-awake and embarrassed. "I fell asleep?"

"I say embrace it."

"Sorry."

"Stop with the apologizing. Now come on, I'm inviting myself in."

"Pig," she says, but allows herself to be led across the street and upstairs to her own apartment. It seems the most natural thing in the world to sling an arm over her shoulders. She stiffens briefly at the contact, but then he feels the tension start to ebb from her.

They haven't even had the Talk yet, but still he feels, for the first time, that everything will be okay.

* * *

Elliot wastes no time making himself at home. She's grateful for this until he starts opening cabinets and she has to admit that she's out of alcohol. He shrugs it off and helps himself instead to warm soda that she forgot to put in the fridge. She waves off the can that he holds out to her.

"Hey," she starts, and immediately trips over ideas before they become words. She shakes her head in frustration. "I don't know where to start."

"The beginning," Elliot suggests, all but throwing himself onto her couch.

"How original of you." She sinks down on the other end of the couch. "I'm not sure where the beginning _is._"

"Well, then, you can start anywhere you like. This isn't a DD-5."

"I'd refer to my five if I thought it would be any help at all." She closes her eyes and tries to remember what brought them to this point, with Elliot two feet away from her on the sofa and her about to spill secrets she's been doing her damnedest to hide.

A foot nudges her own. "Hey. It's okay."

_It's okay,_ she repeats to herself. _It's okay it's okay it's okay._ She opens her eyes. "Do you remember, the other day in the crib…"

"I remember. You wouldn't tell me what I did wrong."

"Well, I'm not sure myself. I was half asleep and I heard something like, I don't know." She slaps a hand against the other arm, as though this is any example at all. "Like a rattling, I guess."

Elliot's eyes unfocus as he thinks back. "I had a newspaper," he says slowly. "I was trailing it along the bars."

She represses a shudder. "That would do it. He… had a baton," she explains when he looks at her questioningly, and then she focuses on his left knee because it's easier than his face. "He was – I was hiding and I could hear him rattling with it, it sounded like chain link…" She risks a quick glance at his face – inscrutable – and looks down again. "Am I making any sense?"

"You don't have to."

"I'm not making sense," she translates. The crazy thing is that this half-admission has already eased the pressure in her chest. She's been wanting forever to get him to stop banging his hand on the railings every time they climb a staircase. She is at once giddy and terrified and it occurs to her that whatever the beginning was, that wasn't it.

"I'll go back," she says, and plows on before she loses her nerve: "When he took me to the basement, I asked him what he wanted…

"And he said, what every guy wants."

* * *

_TBC..._

_Pleasepleaseplease review!_

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

_Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me  
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded  
Why'd you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?  
Just a little late, you found me, you found me._

_-__- The Fray_

* * *

He doesn't want to be hearing this. He wants to go home; he wants to go to work; he wants to run until he's left everything behind. In the darkest and most selfish recesses of his mind the plea circulates: let me be anywhere but here.

Olivia is still sitting on the opposite end of the couch, just out of reach, her voice indistinct because her chin is resting on her drawn-up knees. Flatly she has been narrating her ordeal of a year ago, including the smallest details as though she will be quizzed on them, when they both know this really means that as hard as she's tried, she can't forget. She falters every now and again and then resolutely forges ahead, but her hands have been shaking for the past five minutes at least and he's not sure she even realizes; and he'd like to take her hands in his to still them but she flinches every time he so much as shifts his weight so he just sits there, afraid to move a muscle, and listens.

He doesn't want to be hearing this, because it hurts too much, but he can't help listening. Her soft words settle into place in his soul, pieces of a puzzle whose outcome he was supposed to know long ago. They're partners; her pain is his pain; there's been a place ready for it in him all along.

For all its impact it is not a terribly long story, made shorter still by the way she's telling it, facts only, as though it happened to someone else. He can sense that already she's nearing the end, having told him about the bed and the kiss and the mistake Harris made unlocking her handcuffs, her flight and the hiding place that was not good enough, how she surrendered and then ran again, but then she stumbles and seems unable to pick up the thread.

"And then what happened?" he prompts for the first time.

"And then… he cuffed me to the doorknob and…" Olivia knots her hands together. "Haven't you ever wondered," she asks haltingly, "how I knew to ask Ashley about the mole?"

There's a whole list of things he's wondered about her, but somehow that never made it. What now seems like a glaringly obvious oversight he'd attributed to the fantastic instincts he knows so well.

"Oh," he says feebly.

"'Bite me and I'll kill you,'" she quotes, her eyes distant. "That's what he said."

He reaches out and catches her fingers before she can wring them off. "And then?"

To his surprise she laughs bitterly and shakes off his hands. "And then Fin came to the rescue."

"I'm sorry," he says after a strained silence, because he doesn't feel he's said it enough yet tonight.

"Oh!" she says, sitting up straight so that she no longer looks quite so small. "I knew there was something I meant – Elliot. Listen to me."

Does she really think he could possibly do anything else?

"Elliot," she says again, forcing him to look into her eyes. "You need to know that Fin did everything right. There's nothing you could have done differently if you'd been under with me. It's not his fault, and it's not yours. Okay?"

It's not, but her eyes say _Obey or else_ so he nods slowly. "Okay."

"Okay," she repeats, and as silence falls again she hugs her knees. This is where he's supposed to say something, but he's never been all that good with words.

He thinks maybe she's sitting out of easy reach on purpose.

"There's more," is what comes out of his mouth, to his own surprise.

"No there's not."

"I don't mean more to the – I mean – " He can't explain it, but he's following his instincts now and his instincts recognize this face and this tone and the set of her chin, a variation on the look she wears whenever she's dying to tell him off. Which happens on a regular basis.

"I mean," he says rather lamely, "there's more you want to say."

"No, there's not, El."

"Look, we both know you're not done talking."

"Yeah, actually, I am."

"Liv – "

"Don't you _dare_ try to tell me about myself, Elliot."

"I thought that was our job."

"Our – " Anger makes her swell; he marvels at his ability to needle her so quickly, without even trying, and raises both hands in surrender.

"I take it back."

"You're an ass," she mutters.

"That too."

"And now you're just agreeing with me."

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"Since when do you do what I _want_?"

"Okay," he says, standing up, "now we both have to calm down." He paces a slow circle around the room, then sits back in the exact same spot. "I tried to pull you out, you know. Cragen shot me down. You probably would've been pissed if I'd succeeded."

"I'd've kicked your ass," she says.

"Naturally. I tried again when the TB epidemic hit, Warner seemed so disturbed to hear you were there, but the place was already locked down."

"Yeah, well," she says quietly, "that's how it started. I think I skipped that part."

He'd say _I told you so_, except that even he knows that's not what he was talking about. "Why?"

"It's not really important," she says, so steady that he knows she's telling the truth. "The inmates wanted to know what was going on, why whole blocks were being quarantined… it got loud. Apparently that qualifies as a riot in prison. Harris got there after the fact, asked who started it, and they gave him me."

He can't believe she's so matter-of-fact about this. _Gave him me._ "Did you? Start it?"

She shrugs. "Not really, but I helped."

As though that makes any difference. Elliot fiddles with the pop top on his untouched soda. He knows he should say something comforting but he can't shake the feeling that she's got more to say, that there are words there that she's not letting out. All he got from her were facts – no feelings.

Jesus Christ, he's turning into a shrink.

Across from him Olivia is stretching her legs toward the carpet. She opens her mouth and closes it again. He jumps on this. "Liv, just say it."

"This again?" Both eyebrows go up, a sure sign that he's heading for trouble. "There's nothing. Stop pushing me."

"C'mon," he says gently, turning towards her. "What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

"Well," she says. "That depends."

* * *

He actually has the nerve to look hurt. She marvels at this. Didn't he even notice when they stopped confiding in each other? Is he really surprised?

"What's that supposed to mean?" he wants to know. "Depends on what?"

God, he's an idiot. Suddenly she's exhausted. It's a complicated equation, she wants to tell him, involving the exact proportion of professional to personal, raised to the power of the direness of the given situation and multiplied by his mood at the time. Maybe she should add an f-prime or one of those things that look like very sharp capital E's, just for good measure. In a moment her chin's going to start trembling, that's how close to the edge she is.

What comes out of her mouth is, "A lot of things. I think it's time for you to leave."

"What?"

"Now," she says, fighting to keep calm. "You need to go."

"Okay," he says slowly, puzzled. "Are you sure?"

He hasn't even stood up and she's already wondering if this, tonight, will change anything. If he'll ever be able to look her in the eye again. If she'll ever have the courage to tell him how she begged and cried and was at once so afraid and so ashamed.

She's wondering if he secretly thinks, like she does, that somehow she brought this on herself.

"Go!" she half yells when she realizes she hasn't answered, because he needs to get out of here before she loses control.

"All right, all right!" The couch creaks when he stands, the cushions shifting beneath her. Elliot shrugs into the sweatshirt he was wearing earlier and pauses. "Liv – "

"Elliot," she says through gritted teeth, "you really need to get home."

"I'm going! Call if you change your mind, okay?"

She doesn't answer, just sits there listening to his footsteps fade away down her little hall.

It's the thunk of the door as it closes behind him that breaks her. The tears that have been stuck in the back of her throat since reliving her humiliation now turn into sobs that threaten to swallow her whole. The pain sends her crumpling into herself, gasping for breath; and oh, she cries.

Because he's gone, and because after all that she didn't have the guts to tell him everything she's wanted to in the past year. Because she's still afraid. Because she knows Lowell Harris will haunt her dreams tonight.

* * *

The unease nags at him all the way down the stairs, but he's in sight of the door to the lobby before it fits itself into words that actually make sense.

This is what he knows: that what she's doing is pushing him away, that she does it to anyone who gets too close, and that it usually has little to no bearing on what she actually wants. And hasn't he spent the last few days kicking himself for letting her do it?

Here he is, again, taking her words at face value when he knows perfectly well not to.

Well. Not this time.

By the time he reaches her floor again he's out of breath, but he barrels down the hall anyway and pounds on her door. He wonders, irrelevantly, how many of her neighbors he's waking up, and he cannot bring himself to care. "Liv!" he calls. "Liv, it's me, let me in."

He listens but hears no movement so he knocks again, softer. "Liv? Just a minute, I swear, and then if you really don't want me here I'll go, but I wanna be sure you're all right first. Liv, c'mon, just open the door."

He listens again and this time catches the faintest of noises, somewhere between a whimper and a sob, a sound small enough to break his heart.

* * *

_TBC…_

_Oh, the evility of it all... I love it. Mwahaha. (Yes, I did just make up a word.) I'm going out of town for a week. Hopefully I'll get a lot written, but I'll also have a lot to do when I get back (college looms ever closer, by which I mean twelve days from now). SO encouragement would be, as always, greatly appreciated. In the meantime I hope you enjoyed this!_


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: See previous.

* * *

_I always say how I don't need you_

_But it's always gonna come right back to this_

_Please don't leave me_

_-Pink

* * *

_

He's considering how much trouble he'd be in for kicking down her door when it occurs to him that he has a key, which has been languishing on his keychain for several years since the day she gave it to him "just in case."

At the time, in the midst of a particularly nerve-wracking investigation, it had been understood that she meant something along the lines of her not showing up or answering her phone, necessitating a visit to her place to make sure she wasn't lying half-dead there before they panicked and called Missing Persons. Clearly no-one's dying tonight, but the hard pain in the pit of his stomach says that this is very much an emergency.

"Liv," he calls again, leaning his head against the door as he fumbles for his keys. "I'm coming in, okay?" He almost drops the keys in his hurry, then wastes several seconds trying to figure out which way to turn it in the lock, but eventually he makes it inside. Because he is taking care of her tonight, he takes the time to bolt and chain the door behind him before starting down the hall.

She is exactly where he left her, bent double now around the sobs, crying so hard it's nearly silent. He can't remember the last time he saw her break like this. In fact he doesn't think he ever has.

"Olivia," he says helplessly. "Hey. Liv." He approaches cautiously, watching her heaving shoulders for any sign of recognition, but if anything she trembles more.

His better judgment says to say at least an arm's length away at all times, in case she bites. He tells his better judgment to stuff it. And as it turns out she is so far gone that she doesn't protest when he sits down beside her and gently pulls her up into his arms.

During his career he's dealt with more than his share of crying women, but none of them have been Olivia and therefore none of them have prepared him for this. He can _feel_ her tears now, hot against his neck, can feel her shaking, so hard that he worries about her breathing. He's supposed to say something, right, something soothing, but his mind is blank with shock and he feels rather dumb.

Slowly her arms start to creep around him; her fingers find purchase in the back of his sweatshirt and she hangs on, as though it's up to her to keep him from floating away. "Hey," he mutters, because although they've never used it before this, here, is a language he can translate. "Hey, Liv, it's me, I'm here. I'm right here."

An audible sob escapes her and he tightens his grip. "Shh," he whispers, and the words, stupid though they are, start to spill from him: "It's okay, Liv, it's gonna be okay. I'm here now. It's gonna be okay."

He keeps talking as he loses track of what he's saying, vaguely aware that he's repeating himself, much more conscious of the way she's shaking against him. His left arm is going numb, but his stomach hurts rather a lot.

He's thinking that it isn't fair, but he's not entirely certain of what he means or who to blame and he's got a terrible feeling that he can somehow be blamed so he keeps this to himself. And it occurs to him that after all this time she deserves nothing less than his undivided attention, so he quits thinking and just holds her close.

* * *

Awareness returns gradually. Her breathing is beginning to even out and his voice rolls over her, at once enigmatic and familiar. His arms are around her, a tentative sort of safety net.

There was a girl on her floor in college who'd been fond of saying, "Someone needs a hug!" before bestowing said hug onto the nearest bystander, whether she wanted it or not. Back in the day Olivia spent a lot of time laughing at that girl.

Never before has she understood this concept as _need._

When she starts to hear what he's saying, she realizes that it's mostly dumb. He keeps telling her that he's there – well, duh – and that everything will be all right, over and over again, _shh, Liv, it's gonna be okay._ It's really very stupid. For some reason she believes him.

The sobs, which she's had no control over, are nearly gone now but she's too drained to move and also she can't seem to stop shaking so she stays where she is. Elliot's voice falls away as he realizes that something's changed, but his arms stay around her and she's grateful for that. This way she doesn't have to look at him.

"I was so _scared_," she whispers into his shirt once she trusts her own voice.

"I know."

"I begged him not to hurt me," she says. "I screamed and I cried and – El – "

"Shh." He touches the back of her head briefly and she almost starts to cry again. "It's okay."

"It's not."

"It is. Olivia. You saved your own butt, you solved the case, _and_ you kept your cover? Come on. How you did all that is incidental."

Embarrassed, she straightens and wipes her eyes. "I didn't save my butt," she points out. "Fin did."

"And I for one am very happy that you bought enough time for him to do so."

She shudders at the thought and he squeezes her shoulders before he lets her go. "And you didn't break your cover," he adds before she can voice another protest. "Fin did."

Technically, she supposes this is true.

Elliot quietly watches her for another moment, then stands up and starts to move away and panic tightens around her chest. He's leaving. She told him to go and now he's actually doing it.

"Elliot," she blurts out.

"Yeah?"

"Could you… would you stay?"

He stands stockstill, facing away, and she can't read him and she hates that. "Please," she says, distantly aware that she's so screwed up that she doesn't even care about her pride. "Please, I know it's stupid but I – "

Suddenly he's sitting there next to her again, a bracing hand on her shoulder. "It's not stupid. Liv. I'm just going to the kitchen, see what you have in the way of hot drinks. Okay?"

She stares at him blankly.

"It'll make you feel better," he insists, smiling crookedly before heading again for the kitchen. "I don't suppose you have any hot chocolate mix?" he calls over his shoulder.

"No. Wait, yes. To your right," she says mechanically. "Top shelf."

He opens the cabinet in question. "I'm looking at canned peas."

"Behind the cans."

He has to stretch to get back there. "Ah. Can I ask why you keep your cocoa behind the green things you never eat?"

She takes a deep, steadying breath, trying to process everything. She thinks she's getting mental whiplash. "Well," she says, "it's chocolate, El, I have to make it hard to get to."

The hot cocoa does make her feel better. She cups her hands around the mug and holds it to her forehead before taking a sip. It warms her from the inside out.

"Thank you," she says to Elliot as he sits down with his own mug. He nods quietly, without taking his eyes off her.

"You're exhausted," he says.

"Yeah, well. I haven't been sleeping very well."

"Me neither. You're exhausted."

She takes a too-large gulp of cocoa and swallows with difficulty. "Yeah. Well."

"Liv. What is it?"

This again. What comes out of her mouth, while she is trying to determine whether he's already looking at her differently, is "I'm sorry I hit you."

His forehead crinkles but he accepts the change of subject. "I was told I deserved it."

"You did. But Huang thinks I should have used my words."

"Because we always do what the shrink says? What does this have to do with anything?"

Everything. She has a horrible sinking feeling that he is the one in control of this conversation. She's already broken down and asked him to stay with her; she's running out of weapons.

For the third time he says gently, "You're exhausted."

She looks away but somehow he's still got a hold on her. This is not fair. "It's hard work," she admits. "Hiding from you."

There is an audible click as he sets his mug on the coffee table. She stares into her own cup, which is singularly uninteresting, and tries to ignore the heat of his gaze.

"From me?" he echoes. "Liv – "

She takes in a deep breath, which somehow sounds like she's about to cry again; and he gets to his feet to pace. He finally pauses behind her. That's good. It lets her raise her head, which is good because her neck is cramping.

"I'm your partner," he says quietly.

She doesn't respond.

"Why? Why did you feel the need to hide from me?"

Involuntarily she closes her eyes. It occurs to her that she has nothing left to lose. The thought is freeing, but it also makes her wish that she'd never picked up the phone tonight.

"Because," she says, resigned to her fate, "you need to know that I can do my job and not wait for you to come to the rescue."

* * *

_TBC..._

_I know it's evil. I honestly didn't mean to leave it here, but there's no good place to stop for another chapter's worth of material. I'm sorry... _

_Okay this is it... my last night at home (ironic considering that I'm typing this on one friend's laptop in another friend's basement). The next chapter will be posted from, and the following written in, nowhere else but Notre Dame. I am freaking out. Please review. Please. Thanks for reading everyone!_


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: See previous.

So I have a confession to make... I did not write a word for five days. Shocking, I know. But to show that I did in fact do something with those five days, I am now a member of America's oldest and best marching band. So if you happen to see a game (and they don't show commercials over the halftime show), know that I am somewhere on that field.

The reviews have been great -- thanks for the good wishes everyone! Luv4svu, I definitely didn't notice that it hadn't uploaded to svufiction until your review, so you saved the day. I don't know what happened... apparently this is what I get for trying to use a Mac.

* * *

_Time is going by so much faster than I  
And I'm starting to regret not telling all of this to you  
So if I haven't yet I've gotta let you know...  
Never gonna be alone!_

_Nickelback_

* * *

_"Why? Why did you feel the need to hide from me?"_

_"Because you need to know that I can do my job and not wait for you to come to the rescue."_

* * *

It takes him much longer than it probably should to place the reference.

A great deal of their communication is made up of inside jokes from years past. They have never seen each other's favorite movies, but they know the funny lines by heart. Every flub they've ever made, every idiot they've ever dealt with, every long involved funny-only-because-we're-drunk joke Munch has ever told at a bar has become part of their collective unconscious. An awful lot of everyday things are made amusing this way, with a glance across the room to see if the other gets it. Cragen gives them stern looks sometimes, but he knows that he would lose them both if they could not laugh.

So he is used to placing references. He knows one when he hears it from her. But for far too long this one refuses to compute.

When it gives way it does so all at once. All over again he sees her fall, hands flying to her throat – she is on the ground, bleeding and gasping for air – and then Ryan is lying there, dead.

That's what comes to mind when he thinks about that time, but apparently she remembers it quite differently. She remembers the fight they had later, in front of everyone, all the things he said and later regretted.

She remembers it word for word.

He feels sick and to hide it knocks lightly on the top of her head. She jerks around to glare at him. "What the hell?"

"Just checking to see if you have a screw loose," he says.

Her lips quirk up for a fraction of a second. He holds on to that: there may be a lot of things he doesn't know about her but he still knows how to make her smile.

"What the hell?" she repeats, but this time without the glare. He comes around to sit again facing her; he feels like he should take her hands but she's set her cup down and folded her arms tight, to protect herself.

From him.

Usually she knows his whys, better than he does. Usually she knows what his problem is. He's having trouble comprehending that in the three years since Gitano, she has not realized that the person he was really angry with that day was himself.

"You thought you couldn't tell me what happened," he says as it all comes clear. "You thought I wouldn't listen, wouldn't understand. You thought I'd blame you. You thought…" His voice dies. He's been waiting for her to deny it, but her eyes confirm everything he's said and he can't bear to see confirmation of her fear of a repeat. She thought he'd dump her. He knows this; there's no need to say it.

"Sure there's no screw loose?" he asks, before his voice is ready so that it scrapes roughly over the words.

"I don't think so."

"It's been three years since…"

"I can count, thanks."

He picks up her abandoned cocoa and offers it back to her, waits until she unwinds her arms to take it. "I thought you knew," he says quietly.

"Knew what?"

"That I didn't mean anything I said that day. Liv. You know how I get when I'm scared."

The looks she gives him says both _You were scared for me?_ and _You get scared too?_ and it hurts. He picks up his own mug for something to do with his hands.

"Do I have to spell this out for you?" he asks.

"Apparently." She looks down and adds, "I do spell stuff out for you all the time."

"This is true. All right." He takes a great swig of hot chocolate and pretends that it is liquid courage. "Okay. Do you remember, after that other crappy case, I came over here and we watched that truly awful baseball movie?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I forgot to tell you something that night." And later he figured that she didn't really need to hear it, but clearly he was wrong. "Olivia. I meant to tell you that I think you're amazing."

She goes completely still, so that he knows she realizes that he's breaking whatever rules they have left.

Before she can object he continues, "You're smart. You're dedicated. You've got killer instincts and you can take down guys twice your size. You pull off the best bluff in the NYPD. You keep me in line, which I'm told requires infinite patience; and I think you may be the single strongest person I have ever known."

As she lifts her head he offers her the best smile he can muster.

"I mean, major points have got to go to that one guy who adopted his son's killer's sister, but you, Liv, my God." He chews pensively on the inside of his cheek. "I meant to tell you that… nothing you can do or say could ever change that, nothing."

A single tear dribbles down her check and she roughly swipes it away. "El."

"It's okay. Liv, I know what happened to you wasn't your fault. It's just something shitty that happened to you." He watches her closely. "You know that, right?"

She hunches over her mug, as though trying to shrink into nothing. "El," she whispers again.

Years ago it took only a certain tone to get her to tell him the truth. But things have changed, so he sets down the silly prop that is his own cocoa and he pries her mug away and slips her hands into his own.

"I knew better," she says.

"Better than what?"

"Better than…" She's at a loss. "Than to… I'm a cop."

"So what? So you're exempt from stuff spinning out of control? If that's true my life definitely should have gone differently."

He wonders if she realizes how tightly she's hanging onto his hands.

"You couldn't have done anything differently," he tells her. "You did so much better than anyone had a right to expect of you. There's your better than."

A small sob escapes her and she bends forward, trying to contain herself. Elliot just sits there holding both her hands until she manages to look up at him once more. Her eyes, he's quite sure, are trying to tell him how very much she's needed to hear this from him. What he's not sure of is how many more times his heart can stand to break tonight.

"I'm so sorry I'm such an ass," he says sincerely, and then she starts to laugh.

* * *

Not much later they both realize how late it is. Olivia hunts down blankets and a pillow and asks him three times if he's all set before she disappears into her bedroom. Whereupon Elliot puts his face in his hands and just sits there, trying not to think too hard. He feels unreal, like the past three hours must have happened to someone else.

When he looks up she is hovering in the doorway, uncertain. "You okay?" he asks.

"Whatever happened with Jason?"

"Who?"

"Dickie's – sorry – Dick's friend. The one who turned left instead of right. Was he crushed when he didn't pass?"

Then he remembers. It is the story he never finished telling, a lifetime ago in that stupid diner. She is trying to feel her way towards normal, and he's all too willing to figure it out with her.

"Actually," he says, "he did pass."

"You're kidding."

"I wish. New York State now licenses drivers who can't tell right from left."

"Kids these days."

"And it's no wonder when half the adults are so screwed up."

She smirks. "Well. Good night, El."

Technically it's very early in the morning, but he does not point this out. "Night, Liv," he says, and he hopes they'll both sleep.

* * *

At eight the alarm on his cell phone goes off. Elliot silences it automatically and then gives himself a moment without moving. He is so very tired, tired in his bones.

This, he supposes, is the weight of secrets, both kept and revealed.

With a groan he levers himself off Olivia's couch. He cracks the door to her bedroom – messy, he notes – and, moving as quietly as he knows how, unplugs her alarm clock. Her cell is also on the nightstand; he puts it on silent. He checks to make sure the blinds are closed and he prowls around the rest of her apartment, disconnecting anything that might make noise.

It occurs to him that he's still wearing the old jeans and t-shirt that he threw on in the middle of the night. Oh well. It's a better look than the time he wore the Hawaiian shirt to work, at least, and it can't be helped now.

At the last minute he remembers to leave a note to let her know what the hell is going on. It takes some ingenuity, but eventually he unearths a pad of Post-its among the mess on her kitchen table. _You're calling in sick,_ he writes. _It's highly contagious so don't even try._ He agonizes for a few minutes then, but decides, on balance, that preventing a repeat is more important than any of their old worn-out rules or even their pride. So he adds, _Don't forget you can tell me anything._

It can't hurt for her to have a tangible reminder of that.

He sticks the note to the coffeepot, because she won't miss it there, and he peeks in at her one more time. She sleeps like a rock, a sure sign that she sorely needs the rest. But then again he knew that already.

He just hopes she's not dreaming of Harris.

* * *

She is torn between amused and afraid. After a large mug of coffee, though – possibly too large, considering that it's already mid-afternoon – she is a little more rational and calls him to figure it out.

"I'm not sick," she points out without bothering to say hello.

Elliot doesn't miss a beat. "You know, you're at the point where you could say, 'Yeah, I'm sick, sick of my partner,' and Cragen would give you a week off."

She laughs.

"But," he goes on, "if you're not interested in a week, you could call it the twenty-four hour flu. Or the two-day flu. Does that exist?"

"No idea."

"Well, whatever. Munch and Fin said to get well soon."

"They know I'm not really sick, don't they?"

"How'd you guess? Yeah, I think they figured it out, but they didn't say anything. Don't stay away too long, though, or Munch will start thinking it's a coverup and you stumbled upon some hidden secret of the Kennedy administration and had to be whisked away by the government to a top-secret facility in New Mexico."

"Oh, no, is he on about the Kennedys again?"

"Well, we caught a new one today and one of the guys we interviewed, get this, actually wrote a whole book defending the Warren Commission."

"Oh, God."

"It wasn't pretty."

"I can imagine." She can't help smiling into the phone anyway, because of his familiar voice and the tone, which communicated easily to her that despite all the tears and recriminations and weaknesses, he is treating her as nothing less than his partner.

"I gotta go," he says. "But don't make any plans because I'm bringing you dinner tonight."

"Why?"

"Why not? Unless you're going to actually eat those canned peas, because I didn't notice any other food."

"Point."

"Ha. I'm coming!" he yells to someone else. "Geez. Later?"

"Later."

* * *

Later, of course, she discovers the why. It's because the truly awful baseball movie has a sequel.

"This is even worse than the first one," Elliot remarks about ten minutes in, with some horror.

"Hey," she says, "I liked the first one."

"Really?"

"No, of course not, but it was nice to make fun of."

"Agreed." He takes a very large bite of burger and she winces and shoves a napkin at him.

"Eat like a grownup."

"But that's no fun."

"Tough luck."

When the movie ends she sends him home. He asks several times if she's sure, eyeing her doubtfully, but she means it this time and it doesn't take long for him to see that.

"You'll be okay?" he says then, half statement, half question.

She summons a smile, which is a much easier process than it's been. "Yeah, I think so."

He claps her on the shoulder, presses it briefly. In this moment there are no words, only understanding. _Anytime_ is there, and _always, _and a strange hesitation and suddenly she realizes. Right now he's more afraid than she is. He's afraid of screwing this up.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she says, when what she means is _I need you to do exactly what you're doing._

Understanding this, he says, "Thank God. I can't take one more minute in a car with Munch."

"One day," she reminds him. "You're a wimp."

"That hurts. Deeply."

And so it continues.

* * *

_TBC..._

_One chapter to go! And by then it'll probably be time for season 11. Pleeeease review!_


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: See previous._

_Madness, I tell you! My RL, that is. Sorry for the wait._

_For ally… not sure how well I pulled it off but I tried._

_

* * *

_

If you ever need me  
You know where to find me  
I will be waiting  
Where I've always been  
Right by your side

_Matthew West_

* * *

She runs.

Buildings flash by, bystanders' frightened faces. Behind her Elliot's feet pound into the pavement, slowly falling behind. She's faster. Their prey, though, must be some sort of track star.

There's a cat in his path. As he sidesteps to avoid it she takes a chance and leaps and they both slam into the ground. The wind is knocked out of him but she gets up to kneel on his back and cuff him; Elliot arrives in time to help her haul him upright.

The adrenaline rush will stay with her for the rest of the day: the reconfirmation that she is strong.

* * *

He's not watching her, exactly, because he knows that that's not what she wants or needs. He knows it in his gut, deep in the place where they are connected.

But he's more aware of her, these days. When he hears her sigh he remembers to look up and check that she's all right. Most often she is, but he checks anyway because he will not give her cause to doubt him again.

What he learned in Catholic school was this: with great power comes great responsibility. If his words have such an effect on her, he shouldn't use them carelessly. So he's being careful about that too.

* * *

John, of course, notices a change in them. John notices most everything and chooses to ignore the greater part of it. But this he absorbs, this subtle shift. Elliot is quieter these days; Olivia louder. She smiles more. There is a tension missing, and without it the squad room is just a little lighter.

John absorbs all this because, old and jaded though he may be, this strange familiar dynamic gives him hope.

* * *

On the day of closing arguments in Joseph Saltzman's trial, they all celebrate. They do this because Alex arrives at the squad room within five hours to bring them the guilty verdict, and because they lose so many that any win is worth a little celebration.

Since there are not terribly many of them, it never reaches the point of madness; but Elliot and Olivia still find a moment to glance at each other, while everyone else is distracted.

_I might have gone that way forever,_ she says silently.

_I know._

Never before has he been even the tiniest bit grateful for a perp. But the thought of her suffering as long as she did is enough to make is stomach turn. At least, now, he knows it's different – even he isn't naïve enough to think it's all better – but it is a little better, more so every day. At least there's that.

* * *

It gets easier every day. Well, not every day. Sometimes she goes backwards. But rarely as far as she's come since the last time she stumbled so the general trend is easier. She thinks.

She's been through this before. It's been a year; that's a long time to go back and forth. This time, though, it's different. Every so often she has a moment, and she looks at her partner, willing him to meet her eyes. And he does, and he sees, and he gives her that crooked half-smile that means about ten conflicting things all at once and somehow this makes her feel better.

She isn't doing it on her own anymore, not really. Whatever "it" may be. They haven't said a word on the subject in weeks but still she is not in it alone and if she only possessed the words to tell him how much this means to her, she would. But she thinks he knows anyway.

* * *

There should be absolutely nothing strange about this dinner. They are eating burgers at one of their favorite haunts between interviews and they do this practically every other day and tonight should not be any different just because they had a three-second eye conversation earlier.

"Well," Elliot says, poking a fry in her general direction. "This is awkward."

"Thank you," she sighs. "At least I'm not the only one."

"Sorry. I'm not sure how to do this."

"This sounds familiar."

"How are you?"

For a moment she ponders what is possibly the most common question in the English language. And then she realizes that they never ask each other that. And for this reason the question digs much deeper.

"Well," she says. "Better."

"Good."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

It's true, she supposes, that he hasn't done much of anything since That Night. But it doesn't matter. Knowing that he's a phone call away, should she need him – that's everything.

"Oh," he says.

"Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good."

This settled, Elliot starts on her fries and they move on.

* * *

-_finis_-

* * *

Thanks for reading, everyone! You've all been an incredible support throughout this process. Please send off those reviews one last time. (For this story, anyway.)

Season eleven: T minus twelve days. Get excited.

Always, Catherine


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